Sherlolly AU Prompts
by MizJoely
Summary: A series of prompt fills, mostly from the collected lists of AUs I've amassed on tumblr under my sherlollilists side blog (link on my home page here). All Sherlolly, of course, and ratings will vary.
1. The House On Haunted Hill

_A/N: So this is the start of a new collection of one-shots. This will be the home for AU prompts from the list I have on tumblr under my sherlollilists side blog. I'll accept PMs and asks from those lists for future additions to this series, which will be written as inspiration strikes and time allows. I'll be sure to indicate ratings with every story and remember, I own nothing except my gratitude to Moftiss for the inspiration!_

 _This story is teenlock and is rated T for some Bad Language on Sherlock's part._

 _blessyoubuckybarnes said: I checked out your sherlollilists and I think the au of two strangers exploring the same 'haunted' house would be a hilarious Sherlolly au. Sherlock would totally be terrified of 'ghost' Molly xD x_

 _My response: Sorry, this one had me totally stumped until my brain finally clicked and said: Teen!lock, so I hope you like it!_

* * *

The house was supposedly haunted, and sixteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes was keen to explore it. Not because he believed in ghosts – he definitely didn't believe in anything so unscientific! – but because he wanted to shut up the idiots who _did_ believe the whispered stories. Not just the other kids in the neighborhood but the adults as well. Just because a house lay vacant for years and years in an otherwise fully occupied section of town didn't mean it was haunted; in fact, he'd already checked the real estate records and discovered that the current owner was about a billion years old and owned literally dozens of buildings in various parts of the UK but lived in Brazil.

So it wasn't abandoned as so many assumed, and it wasn't left empty because the so-called 'ghosts' drove (non-existent) prospective tenants away. Since there was a logical reason for it to be empty, there was also a logical reason for the supposed ghost sightings, and he was determined to root said logical reason out and hold it up in triumph for all to see.

Of course, there were stubborn idiots around who would refuse to admit the truth even when waved under their collective noses, but sod them; there was nothing he could do about willful blindness. No, he'd be content to shut up the ones who were simply gullible, even knowing that they'd just find something equally idiotic to distract their tiny, empty brains.

Oh well. He was surrounded by idiots and had been all his life, there was nothing much he could do about it but at least it would be something to do, checking out a 'haunted house' and debunking the various stories. Boredom alleviated for at least a few days, which was as much as he could hope for with Mycroft off to uni and not around for him to torment.

He grinned at the plans he had for when his brother returned for the upcoming Christmas holidays; first beat him at a few games of chess, Monopoly and Operation, then egg their mother into baking even more biscuits and pies than she usually did at this time of year in order to watch Mykey struggle with his sugar addiction. And then, of course, casually announce his findings about the haunted house. Minor victories, true, but even if Sherlock hated to admit it, sometimes minor victories were all he could manage where his older brother was concerned.

Gleefully anticipating a very satisfactory holiday season, he grinned again as he hopped the fence at the back of the property. It was sat at the very edge of town at the top of a modest hill, and the kids had therefore nicknamed it 'the house on haunted hill' after some horror movie, or possibly a video game. Who knew, and who cared?

"Not me," he said under his breath as he studied the empty building in front of him, an unexpected sense of trepidation settling in the pit of his stomach. It was a dark, multi-storied rambling leftover from the Victorian era, looming far larger tonight than it seemed to in the daylight. The yard was overgrown with weeds and the occasional shrubbery, all dead and yellow at this time of year. He carefully felt in his pocket for the penlight he'd brought along, as well as the pocket knife he'd filched from his father's cluttered accumulation in his desk drawer. Not the good Swiss Army knife, he'd notice if that went missing, but a sturdy blade that might come in useful. Not as a defensive weapon; if ghosts were real (which they absolutely were NOT, he thought uneasily as he continued to stare at the darkened house gone even darker as some clouds scudded across the full moon that had lit his way thus far) then they would be immune to mortal weapons. And if he ran into some human pranksters (which had to be the explanation for the lights many claimed to have seen flickering on and off in the empty house over the years), he was confident of his martial arts and boxing skills to protect him more than some skimpy blade that would be far more useful in jimmying open locked or jammed-up doors or windows.

Realizing he was stalling, he huffed out an impatient breath (that shone as a cloud of white condensation in the air before vanishing, why did winter have to be so bloody _cold_?) and moved forward, determined to get to the bottom of the 'hauntings' once and for all. His reluctance wasn't, he assured himself, due to the fact that it was quite dark and silent, but simply because of his natural impulse to study a thing from all angles before acting.

 _Yeah, right,_ he could hear his friend John Watson's scoffing voice in his head. _Mr. Leap-Without-Looking thinks he's being cautious. Why not just admit that you're beginning to think it's a bad idea to check this place out at night instead of during the day when you could see more clearly? What if the floors are bad and you go plunging into the basement, or what if there are junkies getting high or criminals using this place as a hide-out? What if…_

"Shut up, John, go snog Mary," Sherlock muttered aloud. He'd reached the back door and closed his mouth tightly, listening carefully for any sounds that might indicate that the John in his mind was right. Nope, utter silence. Good. Curious, he tried the back door and found it locked, as expected.

The cellar doors, however, proved to have been forced open recently, causing him to both grin and hesitate: the grin because he KNEW there was a logical reason for the hauntings and what ghost would need to use a door of any kind, and the pause because perhaps his inner John was right about who was using that door.

Hmm, actually, now that he looked at it, there was no way any adult could squeeze through that narrow opening. He didn't bother with more than a cursory examination, barely flashing his penlight over the dark opening once he'd ascertained that it was, indeed, rusted in place and unable to be forced either fully open or fully closed. He supposed some neighborhood kiddies might have dared one another into pushing through that opening…no, on second thought, none of them would have the balls to try it, he thought scornfully. If he was five years younger, his skinny 11-year-old self could have managed it, but they hadn't lived here then, had still been out in the middle of nowhere in Sussex being homeschooled by their parents and happily unaware of what idiots other children actually were.

Pushing aside any thoughts other than how to get inside the house, he finally managed to pry open one of the ground floor windows (after finding and prying off a loosened board) and hoisted himself through and inside. He landed with a grunt, then carefully pulled the window mostly down and oriented himself so he could be sure to leave by the same method when the time came.

He put on the penlight, making sure the narrow beam was aimed at the filthy floor and began his reconnaissance.

A half-hour later he'd finished with the ground floor and debated whether he should make his way up or downstairs next. Deciding to go all the way to the attic and then explore the other floors and end in the basement, he tested each step carefully, not only for creaks but mainly for rotten boards. They seemed pretty sound and eventually he found himself at the foot of the second set of stairs at the end of a dark hallway with peeling wallpaper and some very interesting fungal growths he would have to come back and take some scrapings from when he had the proper tools with him.

A sound from above caught his attention, and he started, cursing softly when he dropped the penlight. He groped for it, cursing a bit louder when he realized the bulb had died when he dropped it. The sound had been that of floorboards creaking, which could have been due to any number of reasons – from squirrels or other wildlife nesting up there to a person or persons unknown creeping about.

It was definitely _not_ due to a ghost; they wouldn't have any weight to them so how could a ghost make the floorboards creak?

 _No matter what it is, time to leave,_ his inner Mycroft advised him. _Don't be stupid, Sherlock; you're just a skinny teenager and it could be a desperate murderer up there. Be smart like me and just leave now._

"Fuck off, Mykey," he muttered under his breath, his spine straightening and chin lifting in defiance. The ghosts inside his head were more annoying than any real spirit could be and he'd be damned if he left now without finding out what made the noise!

He kept to the left side of the stairs as he had coming up to the first floor, reasoning that it would not only be sounder but would also make the least noise. That proved to be the case, and he ghosted ( _hah!_ ) his way up, pausing to listen every few steps. The noise he'd heard didn't repeat itself, but as he reached the attic a new sound, a soft, sighing moan, prickled his skin and raised the hairs on the back on his neck.

 _No such thing as ghosts,_ he reminded himself angrily, and boldly stepped into the room. "Who's there?" he demanded, hating that his voice was a bit shrill and deliberately modifying to a deeper tone as he added, "You may as well come out, I know you're here."

Both his inner John and Mycroft tsked at him in exasperation, but he mentally responded with _Fortune favors the bold_ and willed them away.

Another soft sigh, definitely a girl or woman making the sound, and a creaking floorboard directly behind him. He spun around, wishing desperately for his penlight; as if in response to his panicky thoughts, the moon came from behind the clouds and flooded the darkened space with silvery light. He gasped and took a single, stumbling step back as the figure of a girl seemed to materialize right in front of him, wearing a loose white gown, the sleeves torn and darkened with what looked like bloodstains at the wrist. Her hair was a loose, tangled cloud that hung down to the small of her back and across her shoulders, shrouding her face in darkness until she suddenly looked up, and he gasped again at the sight of her vacant eyes, slack mouth and the streaks of what must absolutely be blood marring her features.

"Fucking hell!" he exclaimed, fumbling for the knife with suddenly shaky hands.

As if his words had broken some sort of spell, the girl (ghost?) shook her head and blinked, staring around with an expression of utter confusion on her face. "What…where…where am I? Who are you?" she asked, her voice squeaking on the last question. She shuddered and clutched her arms to herself, wincing in obvious pain as she did so. When she moved, Sherlock could see that her feet were bare and that she was limping and suddenly it all clicked into place.

"You were sleepwalking, something you don't usually do," he said, speaking rapidly as the deductions spewed from his mind to his lips. "It's a new, unpleasant thing, probably because of something that happened at home. You're new here, too, which is why I didn't recognize you, from that family that moved into the house down the street. We're in the Blaine house," he added as the girl gaped at him. He shrugged out of his coat and offered it to her. "It's December, you must be freezing," he added as she made no move to accept it. He worked his boots off his feet and stepped out of them, standing in his stocking feet and nudging them toward her. "Take them" he added impatiently. "Don't be stupid, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm right about the sleepwalking, yeah?"

"Yeah," she finally said, sounding dazed. But taking his coat; good. He didn't like the way her teeth were chattering, not entirely from fear, of course. "But how did you…"

"If you were used to sleepwalking you'd be used to waking up in strange places and would have recovered quicker," he said simply, watching approvingly as she shuffled over to his boots and stepped into them. She was a tiny thing; his coat was swimming on her and her feet would be… "Oh, of course!" he exclaimed, stepping closer and grasping her hands to examine them. She pulled away and he let her go, but thrust his head close to hers in order to take in her bloodied face. "You squeezed through the cellar doors, you're certainly skinny enough but scraped your face and hands when you did so. Surprised that didn't wake you up but I don't know much about sleepwalking, I'll have to read up on it now."

"Why?" the girl asked, sounding less dazed and more surprised. "I mean…thank you for helping me, but why do you need to read up on sleepwalking now?"

He blinked at her. "So I can figure out how to help you get over it, of course," he replied. "You can't keep doing things like this, you might end up in the river some night and your parents wouldn't…uh, sorry," he added, stumbling a bit as he took in her downcast expression. "It's just one parent now, right? Mum or dad?"

"My dad, cancer, he died just a few weeks ago and we moved here to be closer to my aunt and uncle," the girl said quietly. "This sleepwalking thing started after we moved, but I've never wandered further than the yard before waking up. Oh, my Mum will be frantic, I have to get home!" she exclaimed, eyes wide – brown, he thought, a nice dark brown, very warm, like the earth in his mum's garden in the spring.

Shaking off the fanciful thought, he nodded. "Yeah, better get you home and get those scratches tended to. My name's Sherlock," he added, suddenly remembering his manners. "You must be a few years behind me in school, you're what, fourteen?"

"Fifteen and a half," she replied tartly. Ah, so she was often mistaken for being younger than her actual age and resented it. "And I'm Molly Hooper and I've heard of you and you're nowhere near as nast…uh, I mean, we're in the same class or will be when I actually start, Mum kept me out till after the holidays cause she thought it would be easier and…"

Sherlock laughed. "Good to know my reputation hasn't changed, everyone thinks I'm a nasty freak just because I can tell them what they had for breakfast or if their parents are cheating on each other – or worse, their girlfriends and boyfriends." He grinned, letting her know he wasn't mad at her.

"It's rude," she mumbled and he started to protest that it was just deductions when she continued, "Calling someone a freak just because they're smart enough to know things about you? That's just plain rude, and I'm sorry I listened to any of them. All that stuff you figured out about me? That was just brilliant." She smiled shyly.

Sherlock gaped at her; no one besides John had ever called his deductions 'brilliant' before. "S-so, um, let me, uh, walk you home," he stuttered, putting out his hand without thinking why, too befuddled by the unexpected compliment to pay attention to what he was doing.

"Thanks," she said, giving him another one of those shy (beautiful) smiles and putting her dainty hand in his. He felt like a gawky, overgrown giant next to her petite form, but as he would later discover, Molly Hooper fit him perfectly.

He never did discover the source of the mysterious lights people claimed to see in the 'haunted house' but as he told Molly later, he never cared to find out once he'd met her – and did, indeed, help her get over her sleepwalking episodes. She always claimed that they ended the first time he kissed her, and that it had nothing to do with the therapy her mother insisted on after Sherlock brought her home that night and explained where he'd found her.

And that explanation, irrational though it was, was more than enough for him.


	2. Empty Rooms, Full Hearts

_anonymous on tumblr asked: Hey, first of all I love all of your Sherlolly stories! Thank you for so much reading material! I just read your Potterlock fan fiction and absolutely loved it! Since I have kicked off the new year by re-watching all Harry Potter films I was wondering if I could send you a prompt? Just pointless smut (which is always solo good I just can't resist!) of Sherlock and Molly getting it on in one of the many empty rooms in Hogwarts! Thank you!_

 _My response: Sorry this took so long (Anon requested this in January, gulp!). Totally rated M and I own nothing and no one except the smuttiness. Enjoy!_

* * *

The battle was over, with Harry Potter triumphant, just as Sherlock had predicted. He, John, Mary and Molly had done their share, and now John and Mary were out celebrating with the rest of the school. In days to come there would be hard work; restoration of the partially destroyed school, somber memorial services for the fallen, eventually a return to classes, but for now the war-weary survivors were having the impromptu party they deserved.

Sherlock had no interest in hanging about on the fringes of the Forbidden Forest with the others, dancing around the magically conjured bonfire and drinking Butter Beer and other more questionable substances, but he was surprised (and pleased) when Molly begged off as well. Neither of them had lost anyone close to them, thank God, but he could see the same lack of enthusiasm in her eyes as he imagined she could see in his. So they'd hugged John and Mary goodbye and now here they were, standing side by side in some half-destroyed classroom on the upper levels of Hogwarts, watching the flames from the bonfire rising up in the distance.

"You should go home," he said suddenly, deliberately keeping his eyes trained on the distant spectacle as she turned to him in surprise. "Your mum is safe now, you should go home and visit her."

"You should go home too," Molly countered. "Your brother and parents must be just as worried about you as my Mum is about me."

Sherlock shrugged. "I sent them a message, one of the surviving owls was willing to take it to Mycroft at the Ministry of Magic."

"Good idea," Molly said approvingly. "I should do the same thing. But not tonight," she added, sounding suddenly very tired. "First thing tomorrow. I just…I need to not worry about anyone or anything right now. I know it's selfish…"

"Molly Hooper, if anyone deserves to be selfish now and again, it's you," Sherlock said, turning to scowl at her. In the dimness of the unlit chamber, her eyes were glittering pools of darkness, shining with reflected starlight and strangely appealing. No, not so strangely; he'd been fighting his feelings for her long before Voldemort had made his reappearance in the wizarding world. "You've worked just as hard as anyone to fight off the Dark Lord and his minions. Some of those spells you cast tonight were absolutely brilliant."

Her eyes seemed to shine brighter as she stared up at him. "Do you really think so?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "I do." He swallowed. "In fact, I think a lot of what you do is brilliant, actually."

Her lips curved in a shy smile as her lashes fluttered over her eyes. "Thanks. Coming from you, that's a real compliment."

On impulse he leaned down and pressed what was meant to be a quick, friendly kiss to the corner of her mouth. Only she must have moved, or he did, because instead his lips landed squarely on hers and then her mouth was moving and so was his and when had he taken her in his arms? It was a bit of a blur, but he definitely noticed when her mouth opened beneath his, and when her arms slid beneath his robes and slipped around his waist. And oh, her tongue was brilliant, soft and supple against his as the kiss deepened.

He supposed he should have been a gentleman and asked her if this was really what she wanted when he tugged her robes off her shoulders and pushed them down her arms, but since she was busy doing the same to his, he doubted she would have said anything remotely close to 'no'. Still, he needed to be sure. "Molly," he gasped as they broke off the kiss.

"Hush," she admonished him, reaching for the hem of his jumper and tugging it over his head impatiently. "Sherlock, you know your voice does things to me, but right now I don't want to talk. I just…I want this. Want you," she added, her voice catching slightly as she once again raised her eyes to meet his uncertain gaze. "You must know how I feel about you…"

"I love you," he blurted out, as surprised by the confession as she appeared to be. "I never…I know I said sentiment was a chemical defect, but Molly, I love you. We could have died tonight, and I never want to waste another minute with you."

Her smile could have lit up the night sky better than a thousand magical bonfires, and warmed him from head to toe. "I love you too," she said happily, her fingers busy with the buttons of his white Oxford. "Enough words. Show me."

It was an order he was more than happy to comply with. In short order they were both completely naked, too busy staring at one another's body for the chilly night air to register. Molly was beautiful, so perfect; her breasts were small but jutted up proudly, the nipples contracted to hard nubs that he longed to explore with mouth and hands. His cock was just as hard, although not from the cold; in fact, his body felt pleasantly flushed and warm. He reached out tentatively, flicking his eyes up to seek permission before touching.

Molly's nod was all he needed, but her encouraging smile warmed him further as he palmed her breasts. He heard her suck in a breath and allowed a satisfied smile to curl his lips. She felt every bit as fantastic as he'd fantasized, and he couldn't wait to feel more of her. His hands slid around her back as he pulled her tightly against his eager form, head lowering for another intoxicating kiss. She wound her arms around his neck, tugging lightly at his mess of dark curls as they sank to the pile of discarded clothing.

Molly moaned as he kissed down her neck, her eyes tightly shut and fingers sunk deep into his hair. He sucked at her pulse point, knowing she could easily magic away any embarrassing marks he might leave, but eager to taste her…oh, _taste_ her! His eyes lit up and he felt almost dizzy at the thought of doing just that, finally knowing how she would feel and taste. He nuzzled his way down her body, lingering at her breasts, licking and sucking at her nipples until her moans became gasps and mewls of pleasure. "Oh, God, Sherlock," she cried as he eagerly made his way down her abdomen. He wasn't quite sure how best to approach his intended target, but John's extensive collection of pornographic scrolls at least gave him an idea of how to proceed.

He lipped at her pubic region clumsily at first, then rapidly gained in confidence as she continued to murmur and wriggle beneath him. He carefully used his thumbs to open her up a bit, licking a slow stripe from her opening to her clitoris, moving a bit faster when her guttural moans seemed to indicate that he was doing something right. He felt her clit rising up to a little peak as he licked and suckled, and that encouraged him to try pressing his fingers against her opening, rubbing softly as she bucked her hips and called out his name again.

Soon he felt her muscles clenching, heard her panting breaths and sharp cries and then his name again, shrieked out as she tensed beneath him, a flood of moisture bathing his lips and chin and eagerly lapping tongue. Too soon she was tugging his away, begging for a moment's respite, and he sat back on his heels, grinning down at her. "So, I did okay then?" he asked, smugly certain of the answer.

She stared up at him, her hair a tangled mess, eyes wild; he could see her pulse jumping in her throat and heard how ragged her breathing had become. "Y-yeah, you did okay," she finally said, clearly trying to fake indifference – and failing miserably.

Before he could do more than gloat, however he suddenly found himself on his back with a very determined Molly Hooper shoving her tongue down his throat. He giddily wondered what she thought of the taste of herself before his brain short-circuited at the feel of her nicely greased-up pussy gliding along his cock, her breasts against his chest, her hands again tugging at his curls. He gasped as she sat back up and slithered down his body until her lips were hovering over his cock. Was she really going to… "Christ," he groaned as she lowered her head and took his cock into her mouth. She was a bit clumsy but enthusiastic, just as he had been when his mouth was on her, and it wasn't long before he was trying to hold his hips still and not rut up into her sweet mouth. "Fuck, Molly, stop," he gasped, reaching down to tug her away. "I want…not in your mouth, please let me…"

"Yes," was all she said, and then she was straddling him, leaning forward and reaching down between his legs to grasp his twitching cock and guide him toward her opening. It took a few tries and she grimaced and dug her fingers into his shoulder before he finally made it fully inside her, but it was totally worth it. She was panting into his ear, her breath hot and sweet against his overheated skin, and he forced himself to wait until she began moving, not wanting to hurt her any more than he already had. And when she did, he felt incredible, as if the stars and planets and distant galaxies he'd never taken an interest in had all flown into his body at the same time – and were just as quickly about to explode from every pore. "Molly, I'm gonna, I'm about to…" he gasped, his hips moving erratically against hers.

She leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his lips, raising and lowering herself above him at a frantic pace, one that he easily surpassed in his hurry to chase down the inevitable release.

It was over all too soon; next time, he resolved as he shuddered and clung to Molly's soft, lovely form, he would find a way to make it last. And bring her off properly, not just with his mouth. Although, come to think of it, that had been his second favorite part of this brilliant encounter.

They lay tangled together afterwards, with his robes beneath them and hers over them as an impromptu coverlet, whispering words of love to one another. They fell asleep that way, Molly's head warm on his chest, awakening with the dawn and pleased to realize that neither of them felt a single moment's regret for what had passed between them in the darkness.


	3. Pipe Down!

_finish-the-hat-george from tumblr said: AU prompt? I SWEAR to GOD if I hear you showering at THREE IN THE MORNING again, I will seriously fight you, the pipes in this building are RIGHT above my bedroom, WHY are you taking showers at THREE AM_

 _Unilock, because I love that trope! Rated T for naughty language (Molly has a potty mouth) and naughty thoughts (she also has a potty mind!)._

* * *

 _Clang! Clang! Rattle!_

Molly groaned and rolled onto her stomach, pulling her pillow over her head to try (unsuccessfully) to muffle the noise of the water pipes banging merrily away over her head. For the third night in a row the boy whose room was right above hers in the dorm was taking a fucking shower at three in the goddam morning. Why, why, WHY? Who showered at three in the goddam morning? On a school night, no less?

She sat up abruptly, her temper boiling over, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and jumping down. Her roommate, Meena Patel, slept blissfully on at the opposite side of the room; once she was asleep it would take a literal earthquake to wake her up. Molly envied her so much at this moment. She stalked around the room they shared, fingers in her ears, until finally she couldn't take it any longer. Grabbing a sweatshirt, she threw it on over her t-shirt, not bothering to pull on her jeans over her baggy sleep shorts, slipped out of the room, and charged up the stairs to the boy's floor.

She reached the proper door and began pounding on it; if she couldn't sleep, damn it all, then why should anyone else? (Except the near-comatose Meena of course, lucky cow!) She did stop short of shouting as her innate sense of fairness penetrated her sleep-deprived anger, and was soon rewarded by the sound of the lock turning. She stepped back as the door was wrenched open, her mouth open to deliver a scathing commentary on the appropriate times to shower in a building with pipes as old as this one…and left it hanging open at the sight that greeted her.

One gorgeous, glowering six-foot tall hunk of lean, pale maleness, clad only in a towel draped around narrow hips, low enough that a line of gingery hair peeked above it stood before her. The hair on the vision's (angry, pouting, glaring) head was darker than the body hair, dripping wet but clearly curly, and the eyes…oh, she'd never seen eyes that color before, or rather that brilliant (pissed off) combination of colors. "Heterochromia iridum!" she blurted, then blushed at what must seem like a very strange non sequitur.

The boy's eyebrows raised themselves up toward his dripping hair. "That's not what most people say when they meet me," he drawled.

"Oh? What do they usually say?" Molly couldn't stop herself from asking. This was definitely the weirdest encounter she'd ever, uh, encountered, but since she was the one who'd initiated it she could hardly blame him! Wait, wrong, of course she could blame him, he was the one who'd woken her up in the first place!

"They usually say piss off," he replied, blank-faced.

Molly's temper had returned as she recalled why she was here. "Can't say I blame them," she snapped. "And trust me, I didn't come up here to meet you…I mean, yes, I did, but it's your fault!" His lips twitched and she swore she would slap him if he laughed at her, but ploughed gamely on. Honestly, if she'd know how good looking the late-night shower-taker would be…no, no, focus, Hooper! "It's the pipes, my room's right under yours and you've woken me up three nights in a row by taking your stupid shows at three in the morning. WHY are you taking showers at this time of night?"

She'd raised her voice a bit by the last question, still flustered and more than a tiny bit turned on by the boy's casual near-nudity, and the sound of someone's muffled voice from behind her made her jump. "Oi! Holmes! Get your client inside or I swear to fucking God I'll – "

"Go back to sleep, Gavin, Molly and I were just going inside!" The boy – Holmes – called out, then stepped out of the door and ushered her inside. She followed in a daze, but not before hearing the other boy shout, "It's Greg, you tit!"

"Wait, how did you know my name?" she asked as soon as the door shut behind them. Her eyes darted around the messy confines of the dorm room; there were two beds but neither was occupied; one was neatly made up, the other a messy pile of blankets and pillows and twisted sheets. "And what did he mean, client? What are you, some kind of, of male prostitute?" The last two words were practically whispered, and she felt her face turning red with mortification. Not that there was anything wrong with sex workers, she wasn't that closed-minded and it would certainly explain the odd hours for shower-taking, but still…

He was rolling his eyes as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his (very fit and nearly hairless) chest. "Consulting detective," he corrected her. "Sherlock Holmes. And you're Molly Hooper, third year, studying medicine but interested in pathology. Your roommate is Meena Patel – "

"And you're the guy she hired to find her earrings when campus security just shrugged her off and said they were probably stolen," Molly breathed as she recognized his name. She'd been in London for a week with some other medical students for a conference and had missed all the excitement. Leave it to Meena not to mention how good-looking Sherlock Holmes was – or that he lived right above them!

"Yup," he replied, popping the p and grinning at her. "Meena pointed you out to me once, after we discovered we were above- and below-floor neighbors. She also pointed out that you were a light sleeper after I mentioned how noisy the pipes were. And that you were usually even tempered, but completely lost it when your sleep was interrupted."

His grin widened, and the penny dropped – as did Molly's jaw. "Wait, so you're saying the two of you set this up? Deliberately?" Her face was red again, this time from fury. "Well, lovely, your practical joke worked," she snapped, turning toward the door. "You two can have a nice laugh at my expense, I'll just go back to my room now."

"Wait, no, that's not…it wasn't meant as a practical joke!" Sherlock said. Molly turned back to face him in surprise – he sounded rather desperate, not at all what she expected. He was biting his (lush, plump, gorgeous) lower lip and rubbing one hand over the top of his head, dislodging further drops of water to run down his (sharp, amazing, even more gorgeous) cheekbones. "It was…I'm not very good with this sort of thing," he mumbled. "I just thought it would be…what I actually wanted was…"

"Sherlock Holmes," Molly cut in, lips curling up in a smile in spite of herself, "are you telling me you messed with my sleep just because you wanted to meet me?"

"Notjustmeetyouaskyouout," he said in a rush, then peered up at her hopefully from beneath his (long, lush, dark) eyelashes. "Not good?"

"Not good," she agreed, her grin widening. "But not bad, either. So. I've only a half-day tomorrow – well, today, actually. Coffee at one?"

"Black, two sugars," he replied with a cheeky grin. Then he stuck his hand out. "Nice to finally meet you, Molly Hooper."

"Nice to finally meet you, too, Sherlock Holmes," she replied as she took his hand. "It's a date. Oh!" she added as she allowed her gaze to drop lower on his body. "Do remember to wear pants, yeah?"

Then she waltzed out of his room and back down to hers, grinning madly the entire time.

This was going to either be the best coffee date of her life, or a complete disaster. And she couldn't _wait_ to find out which it would be.


	4. Took You Long Enough!

_Pulchratibi on tumblr (happy birthday!) said: "we're making out and hOLY SHIT IS THAT A TONGUE RING WE'VE BEEN HOOKING UP FOR THE LAST TWO MONTHS AND YOUR TONGUE HAS BEEN IN UNHOLY PLACES HOW AM I JUST NOW NOTICING IT" au_

 _Rated T+ for some naughty implications. Enjoy!_

* * *

He stared at her, squinted, stared at her again. Walked around her while she furrowed her brow in confusion. "Something wrong, Sherlock?" Molly finally ventured to ask.

"Just checking," Sherlock said in his poutiest 'grumpy-puss' voice.

Molly spun to face him when he reversed himself, crossing her arms over her chest self-consciously. "What, do I have brown sauce on my shirt? Is there something in my hair?"

He shook his head. "No, nothing like that." He raked her carefully from head to foot. "Take off your clothes," he said suddenly.

Molly squeaked and jumped back a bit. "Sherlock!" she hissed. "We're in the morgue!"

"It's four in the morning, no one will walk in on us," he said dismissively. "I need to see."

"To see what?" Molly demanded, thoroughly out of patience. Just because the two of them had been shagging for the past two months (ever since his triumphant defeat of the returned-from-the-dead Moriarty and full pardon for the completely justifiable murder of the vile blackmailer Magnussen), didn't mean he could treat her like some sort of, of – sex toy!

"What else I missed," he said grumpily.

Instead of explaining anything, that just confused Molly further. "What do you mean? Are you having internal conversations and forgetting to say your part aloud again? Because I can't help thinking you've skipped a few sentences somewhere."

"Kiss me again," he ordered walking up to her and holding both arms in his long-fingered hands. "Please," he added in afterthought as she glowered at him.

"Kissing yes, anything else, NO," Molly reminded him as she lifted herself up onto her tiptoes. "No moaning in the morgue, mister!" she added with a grin as she pressed her lips to his. He might not think alliteration was funny, but she did!

She squeaked a bit as she felt his tongue sliding between her lips, and allowed the kiss to deepen, but only for a moment before breaking it off. "I mean it, Sherlock," she said, although rather breathlessly – he really was very, very good at the kissing thing. And the sex thing. And really, no one was going to walk in on them, he was right about that… "No sex in the morgue," she repeated somewhat desperately, knowing full well it was no longer HIM she was trying to convince.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, standing quite still and wearing what John called his 'buffering face'. Molly waited for him to process whatever information it was that had him so discombobulated, and was rewarded for her patience when he blinked and focused on her a scant thirty seconds later. "You take it out during sex. Don't do that anymore."

"What? Oh!" Comprehension dawned, the penny dropped, and Molly grinned - and stuck out her tongue with its round gold stud, which she'd forgotten to take out in her rush to get to work at midnight. "Like it? I got it when you and John were in Scotland for two weeks. Can't believe it took you this long to deduce it!"

"You've had your tongue in some unholy places since I got back, Molly Hooper; why didn't you just tell me about it?" Sherlock sounded aggravated – and intrigued. The gleam in his eyes certainly spoke volumes as to exactly how interested he was in her new accessory – and put to the test yet again her resolve about no sex in the morgue!

"I wanted to see how long it would take you to figure out," she admitted as she backed warily away from him. He was shrugging out of his suit coat and going for the buttons on his shirt as she inched toward the doors. "A full week, you're slipping!" she teased, then turned and bolted, laughing as her boyfriend grabbed her round the waist and swung her to face him, pressing her up against the door and snogging her quite, quite thoroughly. It was very different kissing him with the stud in her tongue, she had to admit. "I wonder how other things will feel," she murmured as the kiss ended.

"Well," Sherlock said as he tugged her in the direction of the nearest storage cupboard, "I think we both look forward to finding out!"

And that's how Molly's 'No Sex In The Morgue' rule was finally broken.


	5. Guitar Hero

_Anonymous said: "my guitarist quit the night before the gig that could mean the big break for a band that i have put my soul into and supposedly you're really good but i swear to god if you screw this up for me i will hunt you down and slit your throat" au_

 _Rated T for some Bad Language_

* * *

The guitarist she'd just hired on the recommendation of Molly Hooper's friend and manager, Meena Harker, raised an eyebrow as she finished her…well, rant, to put it mildly; maybe she had gone a bit overboard with the whole 'hunt you down and slit your throat' thing. "If you have so little faith in my skills, Molly, then why take me on without an audition?"

Molly ground her teeth and tried to keep her temper. Sherlock Holmes thought he was all that and a bag of crisps, but she'd never heard of him before Meena's text, and he needed to remember who was in charge. She poked him in the chest and glared as she said, "Because, Sherlock, we don't fucking have time! We have a show tomorrow night at The Clam Digger in London. Booking agents will be there because they've heard how good we are, and we need to rehearse. In fact, we needed to start rehearsing an HOUR ago, which is when you WERE SUPPOSED TO GET HERE!"

The bassist, Sally Donovan, added her two cents' worth. "Just freaking get your gear set up, Curls, and cut the prima donna act; yeah, we called you, we need you, blah blah blah. Just because you think Molly's cute when she's all riled up doesn't mean you need to keep shooting your mouth off!"

The drummer, John Watson, snickered and tried to cover it with a fake cough; his girlfriend Mary, the keyboardist, didn't bother, just grinned and batted her blue eyes at Molly when she turned to glare at her. Luckily she was already red-faced from reading her new guitarist the riot act, or else her hot blushes would be way too obvious. He thought she was cute? She'd not got that vibe from him at all, but Sally was never wrong about things like that. And judging by the way Sherlock – tall, dark, and oh so yummy in his black leather trousers and tight black t-shirt – was scowling at the bassist, he hadn't expected her to suss him out.

"Listen, let's just start the rehearsal," Molly said, fighting back a stupid grin. Yeah, she was still pissed off at the way he'd come prancing in an hour after he was supposed to be there, acting like he was God's gift to music, but Meena wouldn't have sent him along if he wasn't as good as he claimed to be.

After the show tomorrow night, she decided as they started on the first song – which yes, she noted with relief, he was playing as flawlessly as if he'd been rehearsing it with them for years – she would get in his face about the whole 'you think she's cute' thing. _Who knows,_ she thought as they swung into the second song, his guitar perfectly complementing her voice, _maybe I'll even let him know I think he's cute, too, even if he is an egotistical ass!_


	6. Summer of Love

_o0katiekins0o said: YAY! Thanks for AU drabble offer. This is the one I want! 'what do you mean i didnt try to pick-pocket you your butt is just amazing' au_

 _Sorry this took so long, hope you like it! Unbetad and unowned by me, at least as far at the BBC is concerned, sigh._

* * *

She'd never been caught before, not once, yet here she now stood, her wrist firmly in the grasp of the man who's pocket she'd been trying to pick. The tall, rather fit youngish man – not much older than she was, which meant no more than mid-twenties – and, oh, hello! The rather good-looking man. Well, good-looking aside from the scowl on his lips (Cupid's bow, that was the term, right?) and the angrily-narrowed (blue-green and hypnotic) eyes. "Sloppy," he snapped out, not letting go of her hand in spite of her automatic attempts to tug it free. "What idiot taught you how to pickpocket?"

She gave him her most wide-eyed, innocent look, pouting a bit as she protested, "I wasn't trying to pick your pocket! You're daft, lemme go!"

"Oh? So your hand just happened to graze my ass? Your fingers just happened to slip into my jeans pocket?" came the sarcastic response – but, Molly noted, with a bit of a grin on the lips.

She changed her approach immediately, softening her gaze and no longer fighting his hold. "I was just…you've got a lovely ass," she said frankly, and lord, it wasn't a lie. He was more than 'rather' fit, now that she was looking at him as a man and not as a potential mark! Long and lean, his tall form was topped with a mop of dark curls that gave him a Byronic look that went well with his pale complexion. And, oh! Those cheekbones! Absolutely to die for.

She wondered what he thought of her, with her petite (all right, short) frame and long brown hair worn loose over her shoulders; did he think the flowers she'd entwined in those locks ridiculous? He certainly didn't look as if he was here for the open-air festival, even though he wore a pair of tight jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt; no, there was an alertness about him that she should have noticed before trying to lift his wallet. He was probably an undercover copper on the alert for drug dealers (or pickpockets), just her luck!

While she tried to deduce who he was and why he was here, in the well-trampled field where the festival had been set up, it appeared he was busy doing the same. "Medical student, being raised by one parent, the other one most likely dead – and most likely your, hmm, father, yes." He nodded as she gasped and stared up at him, suddenly less concerned about him letting her go – at least he'd lowered her wrist so she was no longer in danger of being lifted off her feet – and more concerned with exactly how he knew so much about her! "Before you ask, no, I'm not a mind reader, just a student of, let's call it humanity, shall we?"

His accent was posh, his voice a deep baritone that set up a lovely tingle in her body; without meaning to, she found herself swaying forward and resting her free hand on his chest. "Who are you?" she breathed, tilting her head to maintain eye contact.

His eyes crinkled in an unexpected grin. "I'll trade you a name for a name," he said. "Yours is…?"

"Molly," she said before she could stop herself. She did, however, hold back her last name; no sense in digging herself in any deeper than she already had! Her mother would be furious if she were arrested; she would never forgive Molly for dragging the good name of Hooper through the mud, even if it was in a good cause. Her father's illness and death had drained the family's finances, and in desperation Molly had turned to a life of petty crime to help her mother make ends meet.

"Sherlock," the stranger replied, finally letting go of her hand – only to twine her fingers between his. "Pleasure to meet you. Now. Let's see if we can find a less illegal way for you to make some cash to bring home to your family, shall we? Fancy helping me locate a pair of runaways and getting them back home? I'll split the fee…hmm, sixty-forty seems fair."

He brought his free hand, using one finger to tip her jaw so that her mouth closed, when she hadn't even realized she was gaping at him. "Um, o-okay," she stammered, allowing him to draw her along when he started weaving his way through the crowd.

And that was how Molly Hooper found herself partnered with Sherlock Holmes, world's first – and only – consulting detective during the summer of '69, while his usual partner was off on a sex holiday with his new wife. A year later, Molly and Sherlock would be off on a sex holiday of their own, all thanks to an unpicked pocket…and a truly lovely bum.


	7. That Vampire Aesthetic

_svartalfhild said: #that vampire boyfriend you met at uni who wakes you up at 3am because he wants to show you how beautiful the city is at night aesthetic_

 _welovesherlolly replied:now I kind of need to read this fic XD Molly of course being the one dragged out… slightly grumpy because she likes her sleep :3_

 _And thus this ficlet was born. Rated T. Enjoy, and thanks to everyone for their lovely reviews of the previous chapters! Also, be sure to check out svartalfhild's take on the same idea, entitled "_ _The Daywalker and Her Night Creature" on AO3 and tumblr!_

* * *

"Come on, Molly, you'll miss it."

She groaned and rolled over, hiking the covers over her head and burying her face in the pillow. "Piss off, Sherlock, do you know what time it is?"

"Three AM," he said brightly. "Perfect time to see the sights."

Molly lifted her face from the pillow to stare groggily at her boyfriend. The one she'd only discovered was a vampire when she'd been mugged on her way from the library to her dorm one night, only to have Sherlock literally materialize out of the darkness and mentally overpower the would-be attacker, showing Molly a flash of ivory fang and red-tinted eyes as he sent the bastard running to the nearest police station to turn himself in.

" _Sorry, didn't mean for you to find out this way." He looked…abashed, there was no other word for it, eyes (back to their normal blue-green gorgeousness) lowered as he studied his feet._

 _It was the shock – both at discovering what he was and at nearly having her wallet stolen – that made her snap out, "You mean there's a GOOD way for a girl to find out her boyfriend is a vampire?"_

" _Yes, well…" He ruffled his hair and shuffled his feet, looking absurdly like a little boy instead of a dreaded Creature of the Night. "I suppose you'll want me to, um, go now. I mean, after I escort you back to your dorm, of course." He finally looked up at her, and she could see how desperate he was for her to believe him, even in the shadowy alley. "I promise, Molly you're in no danger from…"_

 _She'd cut him off by taking a step towards him and lacing her fingers with his. Even though her heart was pounding, it wasn't with fear, it wasn't even leftover adrenaline from the near-miss with the mugger. No, it was excitement, pure and simple, and she saw his eyes widen as she grinned up at him. "Leave? God, no! I want to get a closer look at your fangs and check your vitals – you do have vitals, right?" she interrupted herself to ask. But instead of waiting for an answer, she'd plunged on with more questions. "And what about sex, can you have sex or…"_

 _The silence that followed had been from a very satisfying snog, followed by Sherlock whispering huskily, "Oh yes, I can have sex. Any time you like." And her responding breathlessly, "My dorm-mate's away for the weekend."_

That had been a little over a month ago. And now here he was, staring at her with a hopeful expression on his face. "Did you used to do this to Victor?" she grumbled as she began the arduous process of shifting out from under her nice warm blankets and into the cold air of her bedroom. Getting up was a foregone conclusion, but she didn't have to be happy about it. Even if she rarely regretted doing anything Sherlock suggested – well, that motorbike ride on the moors hadn't been the best idea, but at least they'd caught the escaped prisoner and got him to the local police before he caught up with his ex-girlfriend and made good on his threats to murder her!

"Victor," Sherlock sniffed as he suddenly appeared by her side, moving too fast for her eyes to follow, "was very much up for anything. You'd have liked him," he added wistfully, his blue-green eyes going a bit distant as he focused on some unseen memory. Molly listened raptly; all she knew was that Victor had been Sherlock's first love, and the fact that Sherlock was opening up like this was a gift she couldn't refuse. "Tall, blonde, well-built – friendly and outgoing, too. A cricket player and captain of the polo team. Graduated top of his class as well," he added, proud as a parent gushing over a particularly talented child. "Cambridge, class of '08."

The fact that he meant 1808 was not lost on his current girlfriend, who had finally managed (with Sherlock's eager assistance) to attain upright status and was currently being further assisted into her jeans and favorite jumper, the white one with the oversized cherry pattern. "Yeah, well, soon enough you'll be telling everyone about Molly, class of '15," she said lightly, instantly regretting both the words and the tone as Sherlock's expression rapidly dialed down from eager to melancholy to shuttered. Damn, she'd done it again; when would she learn? She touched his arm in mute apology, knowing that further words would only make things worse.

"He was a good man," Sherlock said, his voice rough. Molly rubbed his arm soothingly, and he stilled it by clasping it in his. She could see the falseness in the smile he gave her as he tugged her over to the window, and wished desperately for the right words to ease his mood.

As if reading her thoughts, the false smile turned real as he scooped her into his arms. "So, Molly Hooper, class of '15, ready for an adventure"

"Sherlock, my shoes!" she said with a half-laugh as she squirmed in his arms. Apology accepted, then; good.

"Those hideous monstrosities of socks will keep your feet warm enough," he said in his most imperious voice – the voice of a man who had been born when the United States was little more than a collection of ragged colonies stitched together by mutual dislike of their mother country, and who looked no older than his late twenties more than 250 years later.

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled her head on his shoulder. "All right, Batman," she said, using her favorite nickname for him as he shifted her into one arm in order to throw up the sash of her window. "Show me London like I've never seen it."

With a sparkle in his eyes and a spring in his step, he proceeded to do just that.


	8. Finders, Keepers

**Finders, Keepers**

 _writingwife83 said: I hope you haven't got this one yet. I feel like it could work so well! "i'm the private investigator that was hired by your ex to track you down and you totally caught me sitting outside your apartment in a rental car so hi what up" au ;D_

* * *

She was made, damn it. So much for her fantastic undercover skills; she should have known it wasn't going to be anywhere near as easy as she'd been promised it would be. "He's a bit of a loner, doesn't go out much, and when he does he's pretty predictable. Kind of boring that way, drove me out of my skull, but damn I miss him."

Those had been Victor Trevor's exact words, spoken with a sort of rueful wistfulness that had captured Molly's sympathy. Generally she didn't let herself get involved in cases like this – she was much better at finding people who'd run off with a great deal of money, or their private secretary, or both – but Victor had seemed honestly unhappy about having broken up with this bloke, Sherlock Holmes, and even though it had been at least ten years, he'd finally decided to try to find him again. He'd given her his last known address – Montague Street – and where he'd gone to school – Oxford, of course, which Victor had also attended – and that he'd been studying for his degree in chemistry. Once she tracked him down, she was to determine if he was romantically involved with anyone and let Victor know.

More importantly, the money was excellent: all fees paid for up front, a running allowance for expenses opened in her name with a reputable bank, and a very generous bonus promised if she found the target.

Who, at this moment, was walking directly toward her car with a grim expression on his face. Molly Hooper found herself facing the choice of driving off or letting him confront her.

She got out of the car; even though it might be best if she remained behind the wheel in order to make a fast getaway, she decided she'd rather face him on her feet, ready to use her martial arts training if necessary. Victor said he wasn't violent, was the more bookish type, but judging by the storm brewing in those (really gorgeous) blue-green eyes of his, Sherlock Holmes might have changed a bit over the years.

He stopped a few feet in front of her, his eyes flicking over her from head to toe and back again, finally zeroing in on her face. "Hi, I'm Molly Hooper, a private detective hired by your ex to find you." May as well take the bull by the horns.

Mr. Holmes' eyes narrowed. "Victor Trevor," he said with certainty. "He's the only one daft enough to pull a prank like this."

Molly frowned right back at him, not liking his dismissive tone. "I would hardly call hiring a private investigator to find you a 'prank', Mr. Holmes. As for who hired me…"

"It has to be Victor," Holmes said, flicking one hand irritably. "I don't have any actual 'exes' in my life."

"Oh." Molly was a bit taken aback. "So he wasn't your boyfriend?" She ignored the stirring of interest at this revelation; having believed him to be gay, she hadn't allowed herself more than wistful sigh at the picture Victor had given her, or the actual face and form of the man confronting her now.

"I don't do boyfriends," Holmes sneered. "Or girlfriends," he added pointedly, and Molly felt her face flushing with mortification; had he read her interest in her question, or had she given something away with the flick of an eye? Victor had said his ex – Sherlock – was really good at reading people from their micro-expressions or how they tied their ties, that sort of thing, so he probably saw her sudden personal interest. Bollocks. She hated being unprofessional.

"Well then, it's your lucky day, Mr. Holmes, because I'm not looking for either," Molly snapped. She reached into her pocket and held out the card Victor had given her with his contact information on it. A bit old fashioned, but when he explained that Sherlock might catch her, no matter how good she was, she appreciated having something to give the man. "Here." She shoved the card at him; he took it, glanced at, did a bit of a double-take, then stared at her with sudden interest. "What?" Molly asked, reaching up automatically to her face, making sure there wasn't some sort of food remains that he was about to make fun of her for.

"You only have this job to help pay for family expenses accrued by your father's recent death. As soon as you can help you family – mother and two, no three, younger sisters – get back on their collective feet, you plan to resume your interrupted studies at university. Medical school, judging by the texts on the passenger seat, Cambridge if that old parking sticker in your window is anything to go by – good choice, consistently in the top ten, and if you were accepted and confident of going back – else you'd have scraped the sticker off by now – then you're not only intelligent but a hard worker as well. Unmarried, no current boyfriend, one cat, and you're entirely sick of living at home." He clapped his hands together and gave her a grin. "Excellent! I must remember to thank Victor."

"For what? For trying to find you?" Molly managed to ask in spite of the sudden daze into which she'd fallen at Holmes' rapid-fire – and dead-on accurate – deductions about her.

"Nope," he said, popping the p in an obnoxious manner before reaching out and seizing her hand in a firm handshake. "For sending me exactly the person I most needed in my life right now. You see, John's gone off and got married, so I need someone who can help me out on cases. I'm a forensic pathologist, do a lot of work for the Met, and a private investigator with a medical background is perfect, brilliant, when can you move in?"

Molly pulled her hand free of his and backpedaled, stopped only when she bumped into the side of her car. "I'm sorry – what? Move in? You just said you weren't looking for a girlfriend, and I can promise you Mr. Holmes –"

"Call me Sherlock," he interrupted her with a winning smile.

"Mr. Holmes," Molly repeated firmly. "What the hell is going on here? Because I can tell I wasn't actually hired to find you, not by the way you're reacting. If you and Vic…Mr. Trevor…have cooked up some sort of scheme to…" She fell silent, not quite sure how to finish the sentence, but hoping that her angry glare would be enough to get her point across. She folded her arms across her chest and took a breath, about to make her icy goodbyes, when Holmes once again interrupted her.

"Not a scheme, don't be ridiculous, what could we possibly have to gain by playing you? No, Victor simply saw that you were exactly the sort of person I needed in my life and made sure to steer us together the most expedient way possible – by presenting me with a mystery, since I had no idea why anyone would set a private investigator on my tail, and by making sure you were well compensated for your troubles – you were, yes? Victor had boatloads of money, more than he knows what to do with, and he's always been very conscientious about making sure people are well-paid for their services no matter what he hires them for."

He whipped out a phone from his back pocket and began typing away at lightning speed, talking to her the entire time. "You've looked me up so you know I work at St. Bart's Hospital and can talk to my supervisor Mike Stamford there to verify that I'm neither a nutter nor a mad rapist or serial killer. My contacts at NSY include DI Lestrade – I forget his last name, Gavin or George, something like that – and his trusty right hand, Sergeant Sally Donovan." He flashed her a grin. "She hates me, but that's all right – she's the most honest person I've ever met, poor taste in men aside, and will give you the run-down on my many, many faults. Once you've verified my credentials – which I know you will since this conversation is interesting you, I can tell since you haven't told me to piss off and jumped back in your car to drive away – you can talk to my landlady and John as well. John Watson, works at a clinic with his wife not too far from Bart's. He's an ex-army officer so his credentials will be easy enough to verify as well. So," he said, coming abruptly to a stop and folding his hands behind his back, still holding his phone. "What do you say, Molly Hooper? Would you care to enter into partnership with a slightly eccentric forensic pathologist who rather enjoys solving crimes people think they're clever enough to get away with?"

Molly replied to this barrage of words by staring at him, opening her mouth, closing it, blinking a few times, and finally managing to say, "Um…"

"Excellent!" Holmes said again with another wide grin. "As soon as you verify everything, be sure to call. I've already sent my mobile number to your phone, the extra room's on the second floor, rest of the flat's on the first, landlady's on ground next to Speedy's." He dug into his pocket again and pulled out a key. "This is to the front door, the flat's never locked but if you insist we'll get some keys made for that as well. Mrs. Hudson isn't big on pets but I'm sure we'll be able to talk her round since your cat is older. Ta!"

With that he was gone in a swirl of dark coat, leaving Molly gaping after him as he hurried down the street, flagging a cab and climbing inside without a single glance backwards.

Two weeks later, feeling a bit like Alice down the rabbit hole, Molly found herself ensconced at 221B Baker Street – although, after their first, exhilarating case together, chasing down a serial killer, Molly never slept in the upstairs bedroom ever again.

So much for neither of them looking for a relationship – which, Victor Trevor thought smugly when they invited him to their wedding a year later, was exactly how he'd expected things to pan out.


	9. Groupie

_A/N: The band name is a tribute to Bloom County's "Billy & the Boingers" (otherwise known as "Deathtongue") :D Rated T. Thanks for sticking with me even when I take forever to update!_

* * *

"You weren't at the show last week, why weren't you there? You've never missed a show since we started playing out, even on nights before exams. Were you sick? No, you've a robust immune system, you weren't sick when everyone had the flu a few months back, so that's not it, hmm, some personal reason, I suppose. Anything you'd care to share?"

Molly Hooper, third year uni student, gaped up at the speaker, too surprised by the barrage of unexpected questions – and too stage-struck by the questioner – to immediately respond. When she did, she immediately berated herself for an idiot as she found herself saying, "You-you noticed I missed a show?"

She winced, expecting a scathing response from the lead singer of her favorite up-and-coming rock band, Billy and the Bangers, but all he did was blow out an exasperated sigh and run his fingers through the disheveled, sweaty locks of dark brown hair that crowned his impressively tall, lean – and heavily tattooed – form. "How could I not notice? You manage to worm your way to the front of the crowd every time, in spite of the fact that I could carry you around in my pocket!"

Molly was still on the back foot, utterly flummoxed that William Scott, the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen, with an equally gorgeous singing voice and ferocious talent on the lead guitar, had actually noticed her in the ever-growing crowds of people flocking to his bands' shows. Why her? She was hardly the sexiest woman in the club; hell, she was hardly the sexiest _person_ in the club, male or female! There couldn't possibly be anything about her to make her stand out, certainly not to someone as gorgeous and talented as William!

"How could you – I don't count, I'm not noticeable!" she found herself insisting.

Instantly his eyes narrowed and his mouth (those gorgeous, plump kissable lips) thinned in annoyance. "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "Of course you count. You've always counted and I've always noticed you. So? Where were you?"

Not sure what to make of his words (how could he possibly mean them?), Molly finally managed to squeak out, "I was visiting a friend out of town. She was…wait a second!" she interrupted herself as her brain caught up with something he'd said to her earlier. "How do you know when I have exams? How did you even know I'm still in uni?"

William huffed impatiently. "Obvious," he snapped out. "Your age, the location of this venue, the fact that most of our fans are at uni…and of course, your student ID." He raised his hand, smirking a bit as he revealed that he was holding the small piece of plastic between two fingers.

"Hey, how did you get that!" Molly grabbed for it, but he held it up out of her reach. "Give it back, you git!" The star-struck groupie was replaced by the outraged young woman used to fending for herself. One who was perfectly capable of knocking someone down a peg when necessary.

If William Scott had deduced that about her, things might have been a wee bit less painful for him. As it was his smirk only deepened as he lowered his face so they were practically nose-to-nose. "In exchange for what?.

Molly glared at him, lifted one Doc Marten-clad foot, and stomped on his toes. Hard. She bet he regretted both his actions and wearing nothing heavier than a pair of canvas trainers now! He gave a very undignified squawk, hopped back a step, arm lowered as he tried to regain his balance, then watched open-mouthed as Molly snatched the ID away from him and stuffed it into the top of her bra. "Piss off," she snarled, turning to leave, wondering what the hell she'd ever seen in him. Talent and looks, oh yes; he had those in spades. But people skills? Not so much.

"Wait!" She paused in the act of pushing her way through the crowd (some of whom were hooting in derision to see him brought low by a tiny mite of a woman, others of whom were giving her the stink-eye), surprised to hear a note of pleading in his voice. She turned, keeping her lips turned downward and eyes narrowed, to see him holding out a hand as if in supplication. "One dance, yeah? Give me a chance to make it up to you?"

"One dance," Molly agreed, wondering if she was making a huge mistake as she allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. Still, he was very fit. And talented. And the tattoo of the snake with a DNA helix cleverly inked into its diamond-patterned form was as intriguing as William's intense, blue-green eyes. Heterochromia was fairly uncommon; she'd yet to dissect a corpse with such a feature. To her mortification, she found herself blurting that fact out to him just as he pulled her close and rested his hands on her hips.

Oh God, that had done it; Morbid Molly strikes again, she thought gloomily. Any chance of him actually finding her interesting had just gone out the window. Of course, she was still mad at him for pickpocketing her student ID, but that was beside the point. She'd been prepared to forgive him since he sincerely seemed to want her company, but now she'd well and truly put her foot in it.

He was staring at her, brow furrowed; she started to stutter out an excuse about needing to visit the loo, when his entire expression changed to one of sheer delight. To Molly's confusion, he threw his head back and laughed before leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, his hands on her shoulders. "Medical student, of course, should have known, all the signs were there but I admit I was distracted by those big brown eyes of yours. Always watching me, always lighting up when you smiled. Sorry about nicking your ID, but I wanted to get to know you, Molly Hooper, as much as I think you'd like to get to know me."

"You know, I think you might be right," she agreed as she allowed him to pull her closer.

After all, she already had excellent proof that he was good with his hands, both on-stage and off; who knew what other discoveries the night would bring?


	10. Page Break

_A/N: Betaed by asteraceaeblue and written for a tumblr anon. Rated T. Thanks everyone for following, reading and reviewing!_

 _Anonymous: hello! for the prompt thingies: I asked for your help getting a book off the top shelf and you laughed at my taste and called me a nerd so I shoved you into a table of nonfiction best-sellers and that's how we both got banned from the quirky community bookstore AU_

* * *

"It's your own damn fault!"

"No, it's _your_ fault! All you had to do was get the damned book down for me, but noooo, instead you had to be a complete twat!"

The argument looked to have no end in sight, even after the two combatants had been unceremoniously evicted from the community bookstore. The tall, curly-haired bloke with the fearsome scowl and the petite pony-tailed brunette with the glasses riding precariously on the end of her nose (not to mention an equally fearsome scowl) stood on the pavement, neither willing to back down even now. Molly Hooper, third year medical student, stood with fisted hands on hips and glared up at her nemesis.

Who had the utter gall to roll his eyes at her. "Really," he drawled obnoxiously, " _50 Shades of Being Degraded_? I'd have thought any sensible woman would understand what utter rubbish that novel is."

"It's called 50 Shades of Grey and it's for a paper I'm writing, you arse," she said between gritted teeth, giving a little stomp of her foot for emphasis.

"A paper on what?" he sneered. "How not to do bondage correctly? How to encourage men to become controlling stalkers who prey on younger women? How to – "

"How to get yourself and a woman you don't even know tossed out of a bookstore?" Molly cut in sweetly. "How to not admit when something is your fault?"

Her adversary straightened his posture and looked down his nose at her. " _I_ am not the one who shoved someone into a stack on non-fiction books, toppling both said stack and said someone onto the bloody floor." He put a hand to the back of his head, winced, then held it up for her to see the red streaks on his fingers. " _Literally_ bloody, you daft woman!"

Molly instantly went from seething tigress to professional caregiver – as befit her intended career path as a physician – reaching up and turning his head so she could assess the damage, careful not to touch the actual injury or the blood still seeping out from his scalp. "Hmm, hard to tell through all the hair, but I don't think it's deep enough to need any stitching. Just something to stem the tide. You don't happen to have a pocket handkerchief or bandana on you, do you? No? Maybe I do." She let go of his head and began rummaging around in her knapsack. "Tissues, no, don't want to leave all that debris in the wound, where is that first aid kit, thought for sure I threw it in here…"

 **oOo**

Sherlock Holmes, Graduate Chemist, gawped at the woman currently rummaging through her over-stuffed knapsack as if she'd grown a second head. How could she go from yelling at him one minute to helping him the next? It didn't make any sense, especially after the way he'd been needling her since Mrs. Hudson had thrown them out of her bookstore. It would be weeks before he'd dare set foot back inside _Page Break_ , or even be seen near the vicinity of 221B Baker Street!

As if summoned by his thoughts, the elderly storekeeper poked her head out the door and glared at the pair of them. "Go on, then, shoo!" she ordered. "Get that cut taken care of Sherlock Holmes, and mind you learn some manners before you come back! You too, Molly Hooper! Him, I expect trouble from, but you should know better!" Without giving either of them time to respond to her outburst, she turned smartly and reentered her store, allowing the door to bang shut behind her.

Molly, as the petite, cinnamon-tressed (brown eyes, slender build, cat owner, medical student, only child, father possibly deceased) woman had now been identified, was staring from the door to Sherlock in consternation. "So, um, I guess you know Mrs. Hudson pretty well, then," she said, gesturing toward the once-again closed door.

"Yes, known her for ages, since her husband got in a bit of trouble with the law. I helped her out with that," he said proudly.

She looked up at him, a smile on her lips for the first time since they'd met thirty-five minutes previous. "Helped clear his name or something?" She set her knapsack on the pavement with a thunk, bending over in her continuing quest for…whatever.

He shook his head, his eyes drifting to her khaki-clad posterior. "No, helped put him away for life. Bastard deserved it, too," he replied absently, still staring at her bum as she finally found what she was looking for – a small, white, plastic container with a hand-drawn red cross on the lid. He shook his head, wincing at the aggravation that movement caused his small injury, but he needed to clear his head; Sherlock Holmes didn't go around gawking at women's bums. Even if the bum was as attractive as this one was. The body was transport, no matter what Victor or John tried to tell him, and he'd managed to keep his transport functioning like a well-oiled machine ever since he'd left his teen years behind.

So why was this young woman suddenly fouling up the cogs?

"Here." He reared his head back in startlement as she thrust a small white square of something under his nose. "It's a gauze pad. No way to secure it, but at least it'll stop the bleeding til you get home." She peered up at him somewhat anxiously. "Is it very far? I wouldn't think there was danger of concussion, I didn't think you'd hit your head that hard, but maybe we should get you to the A&E? Just have a real doctor look you over?"

"One of my flat mates is an intern at the Royal London, he'll look it over when I get home," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand – but accepting the gauze pad with a genuine smile. "It's over on Montague Street, not too far from here. Coffee?"

"Wh-what?" She looked confused, and he suppressed a sigh; after all, even a bright mind like hers was unlikely to keep up with his!

"Coffee," he repeated patiently. "To thank you, and to make up for getting you kicked out of the bookstore. Hudders won't stay mad for long; if you come back tomorrow and tell her you're sorry, she'll let you back in." He smiled brightly at her, knowing full well what his smiles often did to members of the so-called fairer sex. And a fair (ha!) number of men, too.

Instead of returning his smile and saying yes, Molly was suddenly back to scowling at him – damn. Why? "Why should I apologize when this is all your fault?" she demanded, and just like that they were back to arguing with each other.

 **oOo**

Coffee? Where the hell had that come from? Well, obviously because he wanted to thank her, so why hadn't she in turn done the decent thing and either accepted or declined? No, instead she'd panicked and restarted the previous argument. Just because a good looking, intelligent bloke was nice to her for five seconds!

 _Oh, Molly, you idiot!_ she chided herself mentally, even as she continued to verbally spar with her adversary. Who seemed to actually be…enjoying himself?

As they argued they were moving, walking, her forwards, him backwards at times. And suddenly they were no longer arguing about what had happened in the bookstore, but about the merits of various works of literature instead. Sometime after she gave a spirited defense of Jane Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ (and he rebutted with a rather brilliant deconstruction of _Wuthering Heights_ ), she came to realization that the two of them were actually enjoying themselves. And once they reached Montague Street and the flat he shared with two other uni students – Victor Trevor and John Watson, he mentioned casually on the way up the three flights of stairs – she began to suspect it was more than just arguing with her he was interested in.

The way his hand lingered on the small of her back as they climbed the stairs, the appreciative sparkle in his blue (green?) eyes whenever she made a particularly good riposte to one of his comments, the curve of his lips when he returned her reluctant smile at said riposte…it was enough to turn a girl's head.

Panic tried to rear its ugly head again, but she tamped it down – and it wasn't nearly as difficult as it usually was. Not when Sherlock paused outside the door to his flat, right in the middle of a ripping good analysis of modern literature as a whole, just so he could press her against the wall and snog her breathless.

After the kiss ended, while Molly was still reeling a bit from the unexpected way her day had turned out, as if he hadn't just done what he'd done – Sherlock immediately picked up where he had left off. With a grin, Molly let him rant on, interjecting her own opinions whenever he paused for breath.

Once inside the flat, they paused only long enough for Sherlock to introduce her to his slack-jawed flatmates. As he led Molly to the lav so she could help him properly clean and dress his wound, they heard Victor mutter to John, "Great, he finally brings a bird home and all he does is argue with her?"

With a grin, Molly looked back over her shoulder and said, "It's all right, boys, I'm pretty sure this is his idea of foreplay!"

Sherlock chuckled as both Victor and John turn beet red. "Miss Hooper," he said as the bathroom door shut behind them, "I do believe you're what my mother would call a keeper!"


	11. Adventures In Babysitting

_Anonymous said: "you've been sleeping at mine because your house is being renovated and we aren't even dating, yet every time you wake up to the baby crying and sigh, "i'll go" i feel like we might as well be married" Baker St being remodeled (experiment gone wrong), Molly is taking care of J &M's baby for a week. Rated K_

 _A/N: Slightly tweaked but the salient points are covered. Enjoy!_

* * *

It wasn't his fault the ingredients were a bit older than advertised, but the noxious fumes that had driven both him and his landlady out of Baker Street for a week had left him stranded. John and Mary were off on a bit of a baby-break – a second sex holiday, Sherlock privately termed it – and Mycroft wasn't an option, so Molly's flat it was.

Only he'd forgotten one crucial fact: Molly was watching three-month-old Lizzie Watson, and had therefore taken up temporary residence at the Watson's. Once he retrieved that information from his mind palace, he had promptly headed over, ostensibly to offer his assistance (since he doubted Toby, Molly's mangy, bad-tempered, one-eyed marmalade cat would be of any use).

He arrived to find that his assistance was actually needed, as it appeared that Lizzie was colicky and Molly was adamant that they not interrupt John and Mary's holiday. "She'll be fine, Sherlock, there's nothing they could do that we – uh, I mean, _I_ – can't do to help her," she insisted when he pulled out his mobile and stated his intent to summon the Watsons back to London.

"Lizzie is my god-daughter, Molly," he replied crisply. "Of course I'll help you take care of her. In fact, I insist." He then plucked the whimpering infant from Molly's arms and cradled her against his shoulder, rocking her back and forth. "I'll hold her so you can go take a shower and relax a bit, I can tell you've been up all night with her. Why you insist on doing this alone when you know very well how capable I am of helping you, I don't understand."

Molly gave him an odd look that he attributed to exhaustion, shook her head, mumbled something about him just not getting it, then shambled off to the bathroom to do as he'd instructed.

Two hours later, after a long, hot shower, a short nap curled up next to Toby (who had finally come out from hiding under the bed, where he'd stubbornly remained since their arrival the day before) and changing into clean clothes, Molly came downstairs to find Sherlock and Lizzie both dozing on the sofa. Lizzie was lying on her stomach with her head on her god-father's shoulder and her little bum in the air, with one of Sherlock's hand on her upper back and the his other arm curled protectively around her. Molly felt her heart swell with love; who knew the consulting detective would be so good with children? If only…

 _No, Molly, don't go there,_ she silently chastised herself. She'd long given up any hope of being more than a friend to Sherlock Holmes, and counted herself lucky to be as close to him as she was.

While he continued to sleep she put on the kettle and got the tea things ready, as well as Lizzie's bottle, knowing the little darling wouldn't sleep for much longer. Sure enough, as soon as Molly had opened a packet of digestive biscuits and placed them on the tray next to two mugs of tea, an unhappy cry started.

She hurried over and lifted Lizzie up while Sherlock was still blinking himself awake. "Thanks," Molly said with a smile as she tried to soothe the cranky infant in her arms. "Tea's on, I'll feed Lizzie and you get some fortification in you before you head back to Baker Street."

Sherlock shook his head as he sat up and swung his legs down to the floor. "Staying here," he said. "Flat's uninhabitable for the foreseeable future. And you could use some help, not just for now but until John and Mary get back. Barring cases, of course," he added as he dropped a kiss on the top of Lizzie's head – and shocked Molly by doing the same to her. "Are there biscuits? Never mind!"

Molly, a bit dizzy from the flurry of words (not to mention the unexpected kiss!), stood there for a minute, until Lizzie began fussing in earnest. She settled into a comfortable armchair with baby and bottle, trying to process everything that had just happened.

Sherlock brought the tea things into the sitting room, placing her mug on the end table before plopping himself back on the sofa. "Problem?" he asked when Molly just stared at him.

She shook herself. "No, no problem." She grinned. "Just taking it all in: Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Nanny!" She giggled, surprised when he joined in instead of taking offense.

"I am rather good with children," he mused between sips of tea and bites of biscuit. "Perhaps I've gone into the wrong field."

"You could have one of those television series, where the nanny comes in and sets the children and parents straight in a week!" Molly agreed.

"Mmm, it would be a challenge I suppose. If this detective thing doesn't pan out, perhaps I'll consider a career change!"

As Molly laughed, Lizzie finished her bottle and promptly spit a great deal of it back up when she was being burped. Which lead to Sherlock once again taking charge of her while Molly changed shirts and started a load of laundry.

That turned into their rhythm for the next week; Lizzie would fuss or spit up or, on one memorable occasion, poop all the way out of her diaper and up her back, and Sherlock would pitch in without comment or complaint. Even during the night, he would wave Molly back to bed (somehow he always ended up snuggled next to her, just like he had when using her flat as a bolt-hole) while mumbling, "I'll go." Then he'd shamble off to take care of Lizzie, while Molly drifted back to sleep and more often than not dreamed of a life where it was her own baby he was caring for. Hers and, of course, his.

But that was only in dreams. She refused to allow her nighttime musings to become daydreaming; that way led only to dangerous feelings she'd gone to a great deal of trouble to box up and hide away. She even fooled herself into believing she'd successfully converted her emotions from 'wistfully romantic' to 'steadfastly friendly' until John and Mary returned from their week in Scotland.

Sherlock gave them the run-down on Lizzie's colic, which thankfully had begun to ease, explained how he'd been staying there and why, and assured them that Molly had done the bulk of the hard work. "He's lying," Molly countered with a fond grin. "He's a natural, don't let him kid you. He was made for baby care." Then she shut herself up before she said anything about how she couldn't wait to see him as a father, got her things together, and made it out the door and to the waiting cab without further embarrassing herself.

However, her rush to distance herself from Sherlock and the confusing feelings he was causing was cut short as the man himself dashed into the cab before she'd fully closed the door. "221B Baker Street," he told the driver as Molly shifted over and lifted Toby's carrier onto her lap.

"Sherlock, I'm going home," she said, somewhat crossly. "I haven't been back in a week, so whatever experiment it is you need help with will just have to wait."

"No experiment," he told her, leaning one arm along the back of the seat so that his fingers brushed against her shoulder. "Not unless you consider the two of us living together an experiment."

She gaped at him; what had he just said? "Yes, Molly, I said living together," he answered her unspoken question with an exasperated huff. "Living together, eventually getting married, and at some point have a child of our own. Or possibly two, but probably no more than that. Else we'll have to move out of Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson would be devastated if we took her grand-tenants away from her…"

"Sherlock," Molly interrupted, now that she had her scrambled brain cells and frozen voice box back under control, "what are you…what do you…why…"

"I love you," he said matter-of-factly. "You love me, we're clearly both interested in parenthood and spending time with one another, and even Toby has learned to tolerate me in his life." They both glanced at the cat-carrier, where Toby was quietly growling to himself at being both confined and placed into a moving vehicle, two of his least favorite things. "So why waste time?"

"You-you love me?" was all Molly could say, knowing that her eyes were as wide as the proverbial saucers. Sherlock's fingers continued to rest on her shoulder – no, they were curled around her neck as he impatiently urged her closer to him, leaning down to kiss her. Oh, her first kiss with Sherlock and it was in the back of a cab with Toby hissing angrily inside his carrier and the driver ogling them in the rearview mirror.

In other words, it was as perfect as she'd always imagined it would be.

"You kissed me back," Sherlock murmured when the eventually broke apart. "Does that mean you'll move in with me?"

"Yes," she replied, knowing that it would be pointless to hem and haw and pretend to need to think it over. "Of course."

"Good." Sherlock smiled contentedly as he glanced down at his mobile. "Because Wiggins and the others have already moved your personal belongings over to my flat, and your landlord has been given notice that you'll be vacating the premises in two weeks' time."

The cab driver spent the remainder of the drive alternately chuckling at the outraged way Molly berated Sherlock for making those decisions without her input, and smiling fondly at the way the two of them so obviously loved one another. Clearly they'd work things out – and if the way they were snogging after the bloke apologized to her for being high-handed was anything to go by, they'd soon be well on their way to making the first of those sprogs they'd been talking about!


	12. Finally

_thesecitystreets said: "Congratulations. You actually convinced me to sleep with you." Hehe :D_

 _A/N: Rated a strong T for implied smexy times and Bad Words. Cause I really like making them both potty mouths!_

* * *

"Congratulations. You actually convinced me to sleep with you."

Sherlock winced at the cold tone. Molly was still angry with him, clearly; he needed to do something to fix this before she threw him out of her bed and her flat and, indeed, her life. "Molly, it wasn't me using you, I promise," he said, meeting her gaze and nearly flinching at the fury and hurt he saw in her normally warm brown eyes. "It wasn't me trying to get back in your good graces after fucking up and using again, I swear."

"Then what was it, Sherlock? A pity fuck? Finally giving me something you know I've wanted for years? An apology for shacking up with that woman just for a case?"

"No!" Outraged he sat up, the sheet falling to his lap and barely covering his naked form. Molly sat up as well, but tugged the same sheet – flowered, all her sheets were either flowered or covered in cartoon animals – up so that it modestly covered her breasts. Breasts that he had covered with kisses and love bites only a few hours ago. Breasts that he had once fatuously and rather cuttingly implied were too small, when nothing could be further from the truth: those breasts were perfect, just like everything else about Molly Hooper.

Who was still glowering at him, waiting for him to explain. "It wasn't pity, for fuck's sake, or an apology for anything! I didn't sleep with Janine, no matter what lies she fed to the tabloids. I do have some concept of boundaries!"

"First I've noticed," Molly snapped, but he thought he detected a certain softening in both her voice and her body language.

Sherlock carefully reached over and put his hands on her shoulders. She didn't flinch away or push him off; encouraged, he pulled her into the circle of his arms and pressed a warm, loving kiss to her lips. "I didn't sleep with you to get anything from you, Molly, except the satisfaction of knowing I'd finally let myself have something I've wanted for years. Something I've not let myself have because of…well. Stupid reasons, actually," he admitted quietly. "A ridiculous belief that sentiment had no value, that caring wasn't an advantage, that sex was a distraction."

"So what changed?" Molly asked, just as quietly. Somehow they'd moved so that he was settled against the headboard of her bed while she was resting with her head on his shoulder in the circle of his embrace. "Why now?"

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, giving himself time to really think before he answered her. "I have enemies, Molly. People who hate me and want to do me harm. Worse, they want to do the people I love harm. You know that; you helped me save John and Mrs. Hudson and Gavin…"

"Greg," she corrected him, and he heard a faint undercurrent of laughter in her voice.

"And Greg," he agreed, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Moriarty was the first to use my friends against me, then Magnussen, and that bastard Moran nearly killed you while I was busy chasing after false leads in the mistaken belief he was Moriarty back from the dead…who knows who'll pop up out of the woodwork next?"

"So this is just a one-off then? A good-bye before you push me away because your life is too dangerous for a relationship?"

This time there was no bitterness, no anger, just an overwhelming sadness in her voice that Sherlock couldn't bear to hear. "No," he said roughly, tilting her head up so she could see the determination in his gaze. "This is me saying that, if you still want me, Molly Hooper, you can have me. Because there will always be some threat, and if John is still willing to be my friend and Mrs. Hudson still lets me live at Baker Street – and if John and Mary are both willing to let me not only stand as their daughter's god-father but also spend time with her? Then if you'll have me, there's not an enemy of mine that could keep us apart no matter how hard they try. And if you don't think it's worth the risk…then at least we had this one time."

Molly's eyes had filled with tears, a sight he'd seen only once before, the day she'd helped him fake his death. Alarmed, he brushed the tears away with his thumbs, then peppered her with kisses in between mumbled apologies and promises to do whatever it took to keep her safe, even if that included giving her up.

"Over my dead body!" she exclaimed, seizing his head in both hands and snogging him breathless. "Sherlock, that was the most beautiful thing anyone's ever said to me. And if you're willing to put up with my bad jokes and hideous jumpers – don't lie, I know you hate them! – and my bad-tempered cat, then yes, of course you can have me!"

The rest of the morning was spent, not in conversation, but in each doing their best to show the other exactly how they felt. End result: two sore but sated new lovers determined never to let anyone keep them apart.

And no one ever did.


	13. Not To Be Outdone

_Hi! Can you do a drabble about 'high school teachers who always try to outdo each other in lectures and labs and now everyone ships them' au? Thanks!_

— _superwholockian2108_

 _A/N: So enjoy, everyone! I probably veered a bit off course with the prompt, but I think I came pretty close. Enjoy some fluffy T-rated Sherlolly with a dash of Salstrade! As always, thank you for following and reviewing and reading!_

* * *

"I heard he brought in an actual vial of weapon's grade anthrax!"

"Yeah, and I heard she brought in a liver and kidneys from someone who actually DIED of weapon's grade anthrax!"

Molly Hooper, biology teacher, and Sherlock Holmes, chemistry teacher, listened in amused disbelief at the highly exaggerated retelling of their most recent classroom exercise in one-upmanship. The gaggle of chattering students soon vanished into various classrooms, leaving the two of them safely hidden away in the otherwise empty faculty lounge.

"Sally Donovan told everyone that she _totally_ thinks we're dating each other," Molly said in a decent approximation of the sixteen-year-old's tone and inflection. "She heard it from Mary Morstan's boyfriend John's sister Harry's girlfriend Clara. Or possibly from Greg."

Sherlock's brow crinkled in confusion. "Who?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Greg. Lestade. Sally's boyfriend, the captain of the rugby team, the football team and – I think? – the cricket team. You have him in your morning advanced class."

"Oh, yes, of course." Sherlock smirked. "I thought his name was Gavin. But it has nothing to do with how problematic it is that our students – what's the term? – oh yes, ship us. And just because of this friendly little rivalry you started."

Molly's amused expression vanished, replaced by a combination of annoyance and embarrassment. "You started it," she reminded him sharply. "Not me. Anyway, that's not the issue. The issue is how do we deal with our students thinking we're dating?" She gave an awkward little laugh. "I mean, how ridiculous, right? They need to understand that we're just, um, friends? No, colleagues." She gave a high, false laugh and made as if to pour herself a cup of coffee from the conveniently nearby urn.

Sherlock, however, had other plans. Reaching out and catching her hand in his, he swung the surprised woman around to face him. "No, Miss Hooper, I'm afraid this time your students are actually brighter than their teacher."

"Wh-what do you mean?" she asked in a near whisper, brown eyes wide as she stared up at the man she'd had a crush on ever since he'd first started last fall – had it really only been six months? A crush that had been the real reason for the game of academic oneupmanship they'd fallen into. Which Sherlock had, indeed, started!

"I mean," he said, his voice going an octave deeper, "that the problem isn't that the students 'ship' us, it's that you haven't figured out that I do, too."

"O-okay," she squeaked out, absolutely stunned by this sudden turn of events. However, knowing the lengths he'd gone to in order to prove that Headmaster Magnussen was actually embezzling from the school, she put a hand on his chest, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Mr. Holmes, I know how you pretended to be interested in that secretary, Janine Hawkins, in order to get the evidence you needed for the police to arrest Magnussen. So if this is some kind of trick, if you just need me for something – then I'd appreciate it if you'd just come out and ask." Taking a deep breath and looking him dead in the eyes, she said, "What do you need?"

He stared back at her for a long moment, those mesmerizing blue-green irises slowly vanishing as his pupils expanded. "You, Miss Hooper," he said with a warm smile. "Only you."

The he lowered his head, reaching out to cradle her face in his hands. "May I?" he asked huskily.

"Oh yes," was Molly's breathless reply, and immediately after their lips met in a passionate kiss.

 **oOo**

"I told you they were totally banging!" Sally whispered as she eased the door to the faculty lounge shut, grinning excitedly at her boyfriend. "They're snogging in the lounge!" Her grin was gleeful as she tugged him away from the door. "I can't wait to tell everyone!"

Greg groaned; his girlfriend could be a little too much of a gossip sometimes. "Nah, just leave them be," he advised her, dropping a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. "Not our division!"

"Fine," Sally groused as he slung an arm over her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around his waist as they strolled off. "But John Watson still owes me a tenner!"


	14. Cheaters Never

_A prompt for theartstudentyouhate, who picked this from a prompt post: We're cheaters! Oh my god! My mother would be so ashamed of us right now._

 _A/N: The author does not condone cheating of any kind, unless it is fictional. If infidelity is something you're not comfortable reading, I'd advise you to skip this particular story. Rated T for implied smexy times._

* * *

"Relax, Molly, it's not actually cheating if neither of us is actually in love with our supposed significant others."

Sherlock, who was naked as he spoke those words, leaned down to press a kiss to the side of her neck. Molly, who was almost naked and would have been completely naked if not for the sudden attack of conscience/nerves, responded with a soft sigh. "But even if I'm not in love with Tom, he still thinks we're getting married. And Janine thinks you're in love with her. Tell me again why we're doing this?"

"Because we have never stopped wanting to be with each other," Sherlock replied, cupping her breasts in his hands and nibbling softly on her left ear – the most sensitive of the pair, and how had he ever managed to deduce that about her? Never mind, he'd done it, and it was her left ear he focused his attentions on in between speaking. "Because we love each other. Because Tom is an idiot who only asked you to marry him because his parents told him it was time to get married. As for Janine, don't waste your pity on her; Magnussen has something on her, I've discovered that much. And trust me, Molly, it isn't something as innocuous as a bunch of nudes on her mobile taken for an ex-boyfriend."

Molly huffed a bit, not liking what Sherlock had to say about the reasons for Tom proposing to her after only four months of dating, but she knew he was right, the git. Just as he'd correctly deduced the reason she'd said yes in the first place: not because Tom was her One True Love, but because she'd seen nothing but an empty future ahead of her, and wanted someone to spend the rest of her life with. Someone to marry and have a couple of kids with.

If she'd known Sherlock Holmes would return from the dead ready to declare his love for her, she would have immediately kicked Tom to the curb.

Yeah, he mother would be ashamed of her for sleeping with one man while she was engaged to another, but since she planned to break things off with Tom as soon as he got back from his business trip to Cardiff, she could justify the cheating and quieten her conscience with the knowledge that she would immediately tell him the reason for the break-up. If he called her filthy names and cursed her existence, she would take it unflinchingly, as long as it meant she could be with the man she actually loved – and who had finally confessed to loving her back even as he confessed to faking his relationship with Mary's not-so-sweet-and-innocent Maid of Honor in order to get at a criminal he despised even more than Jim Moriarty.

If that meant she was going to hell, she thought distractedly as Sherlock helped rid her of the remainder of her pesky clothing, then so be it.

Then he kissed her again and the world around them melted away, along with any other doubts or guilt.


	15. Simon Says

_Anonymous said: Our children are best friends au. Sherlolly._

 _Rated K. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Lydia really loves playing with Simon."

Sherlock Holmes, single father and unwilling playground chaperone for the day, glanced over at the woman who'd just spoken. A single parent as well, the husband unfaithful and tossed out for good a year ago. Medical professional, confident of her skills but socially awkward as evidenced by the fact that she had yet to look at him although he was the person she was speaking to. Also by the way her hands were nervously twisting the hem of her white cherry-patterned cardigan, which showed signs of having been previously abused in the exact same manner.

Lydia was the four-year-old currently helping his son (whose mother had left the two of them after deciding that marriage and parenting weren't for her when Simon was almost a year old) get himself into the rocking-bee-on-a-spring ride. As soon as he was perched on the metal saddle, she clapped her hands and jumped up and down, encouraging him to rock back and forth and set the ride into motion.

Her mother started speaking again, the words coming out fast and nervous, probably due to his lack of a response to her initial overture. "She says he's her best friend, that he's very smart and once made an older boy cry when he was picking on her because of her lisp. She tells me something about him every day after school, it's hard to get her to talk about anything else!" She gave a nervous laugh. "Every other word is 'Simon says this' and 'Simon says that'. It's like she's playing the game constantly, I tease her about it and she just rolls her eyes and says 'Mummy don't make jokes' and I…"

She ran out of breath as he turned to look at her, absently noting that it had taken far longer for that to happen than he'd calculated. She was blushing now, her cheeks pink. "I'm sorry, I tend to ramble. I'm Molly Hooper, by the way. Lydia's mum." She thrust her hand at him, then started to withdraw it almost immediately, as if she expected him to ignore it.

He reached out and took her hand firmly in his. "Sherlock Holmes, Simon's dad, but you already know that. He talks about Lydia all the time, too, seems very fond of her – but has assured me he doesn't want to marry her," he added with a twinkle in his eye. "Apparently Lydia doesn't like bees, which is a deal-breaker for him as he is currently determined to be an apiarist when he grows up."

She scrunched up her nose, the pink receding a bit and some confidence showing itself. Interesting; most people became less confident around him the more he spoke, especially when it was about his son's eclectic interests. Was Ms. Hooper about to express her distress over such an unusual career choice, as others had done, or was she merely going to offer her (incorrect) opinion about bees?

Neither, as it turned out, much to his surprise. "Lydia was stung a few weeks ago, so I can't blame her for not liking bees. But I told her that bees are important to the ecosystem and that if she wasn't trying to make it fly to a different flower – apparently they both wanted the same blossom – then it probably wouldn't have stung her. Also, she's already told me she marrying her paediatrician." Her eyes twinkled and a small smile curved her lips and Sherlock found himself reevaluating his initial dismissal of her as too shy and mousy to be interesting. Glancing at her hands, he raised an eyebrow as he caught the tell-tale signs of a medical professional in the calluses and ridges. "What's your specialty, Doctor Hooper?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"Pathology," she replied. "I didn't realize Lydia had told Simon that much about me."

"I didn't get that from Simon," Sherlock corrected her. He nodded at her hands. "The story's clear to the trained eye."

"Impressive." Molly grinned at him. "Now tell me what hospital I work at and I'll owe you a dinner." She turned a bit pink, as if embarrassed by her own audacity – was she flirting with him now? Hmm, interesting.

"Hardly a challenge; it can't be St. Barts or I'd have run into you before now, and if it was a smaller hospital you wouldn't have offered me the challenge, as you're the type to believe that would be unfair on your part. So I'll have to say…the Royal London, yes?"

"Yes," she replied, sounding surprised. "How did you…"

"Simon and I live on Baker Street," he interrupted her to say, quite to his own surprise. Was he inviting this woman over to his flat?

Apparently he was, as he reached for his mobile. "Your number's on the class phone list for emergencies, before you ask. I'm messaging you with my contact information and the number of DI Lestrade at the Met so he can confirm that I'm not a serial killer."

Molly blinked a few times, glancing down automatically as her mobile dinged from somewhere deep in the depths of the oversized handbag she had slung over one shoulder. "Um, Mr. Holmes, I wasn't angling for…the Met? Scotland Yard?" she interrupted herself to exclaim. "So I guess it's true, then? Lydia told me that Simon says you work with the police."

"Consulting detective," he replied absently, his eyes once again on his son and her daughter, who were now struggling with the swings. Anticipating a call for help, he began walking briskly toward them, calling over his shoulder, "We're usually home on Sundays. Bring Lydia for dinner, my landlady will be thrilled. Martha Hudson, you can have her investigated as well, but I assure you, she's the perfect surrogate grandmother. We'll see you at three, yes?"

He grinned as he reached the children, helping first Lydia and then Simon onto the swings and giving them each a push to help them get started. Their little legs were pumping and they were laughing and singing some nonsense song. Molly had finally come out of her daze, blinking rapidly before moving over to join them. "Sunday at three," she said, a small smile hovering about her lips.

He smiled back at her, a genuine smile. Getting to know Lydia's mother, he predicted, was going to be quite the interesting experience.


	16. Lydia Listens

_This is the sequel to my previous one-shot "Simon Says" and will be entirely from the perspective of five-year-old Lydia Hooper. Thank you to everyone who asked that I continue that story, which was prompted by_ _Anonymous on tumblr: Our children are best friends au. Sherlolly._

* * *

Mummy and Mr. Holmes were doing The Thing again. Simon had been the first of the two children to notice The Thing, but once he pointed it out to Lydia, she saw it just as many times as he did. First Mr. Holmes would say something to make Mummy laugh. Then he'd look away, probably at Simon but sometimes just at something else, and Mummy's eyes would get all soft and she'd let out a quiet little sigh as she looked at Mr. Holmes. Then as soon as she was looking at something else or at Lydia or Simon, Mr. Holmes would look at Mummy and his eyes would do the same funny getting-soft thing. He wouldn't sigh but he looked like he wanted to. His lips would move a little like he was going to maybe say something, but he never did.

Mummy and Mr. Holmes were friends, just like Simon and Lydia were, and had been for a pretty long time now. Long enough for all of them to have birthdays, even Mr. Holmes who said grown-up birthdays were boring and Mummy who pretended to forget when she was born. Mr. Holmes was so smart that he already knew when Mummy was born, even the year which Lydia had never known before. And she knew Mr. Holmes must be right because Mummy did that scrunchy-face thing she did when she was kinda-sorta mad at someone and Mr. Holmes did that big-smiley-face thing he did when he knew Mummy was being mad about something silly, which always made Lydia and Simon laugh.

Now that they were both five, Lydia and Simon were going to go to regular school in the fall, not 'baby school' anymore, which was what Simon called it even though Lydia knew he liked it just as much as she did. At least he liked their teacher Mrs. Simmons, whose name Lydia was just beginning to be able to say properly now that her speech therapist had finally got Lydia's mouth to work the way it was supposed to instead of turning all her esses into tee-haitches.

It was summer so there wasn't any school, and it was Sunday so Lydia and Mummy were having dinner with Mr. Holmes and Simon and Granny Hudson (who wouldn't let Lydia call her Mrs. Hudson like Mummy thought was Proper and 'Spectful) and Mr. John and Mrs. John. Their real names were Dr. Watson and Mrs. Watson but Simon called them Mr. John and Mrs. John cause that was what he called them when he was a baby and it sorta stuck and now Lydia was allowed to call them that, too. Even though Mummy though that wasn't Proper and 'Spectful either. She and Mr. Holmes (who told Lydia to call him whatever she liked but Mummy was already Not Happy about the other names so Lydia just called him Mr. Holmes) sometimes got very loud about the names thing, but Simon promised they weren't for-real fighting so Lydia decided to just let the grown-ups be silly about it.

Grown-ups were silly about a lot of things that kids like Lydia and Simon thought were pretty stupid, like bedtimes and veg and music lessons (Lydia played the piano and Simon played the violin like Mr. Holmes). The Thing was one of those silly things, too. The way they looked when they thought no one was paying attention was very silly. But kind of 'mantic too. That was one of Lydia's favorite things to do right now, call things 'mantic when they were silly-sweet. Like the way Mummy and Mr. Holmes did The Thing.

Lydia did as Mummy asked and ate her peas, although she made a face because they were so nasty even though Granny Hudson put butter on it for her. Sometimes she wished she could feed her veg to Simon's dog Redbeard Junior the way her friend did, but the one time she tried Mummy caught her and was very stern about it. "No feeding the dog at the table, Lydia, or any other time unless Mr. Holmes or Mrs. Hudson tell you it's all right."

But Simon was very good at not getting caught feeding Redbeard Junior at the table. One day Lydia wanted to be just as good at not getting caught at things as Simon was. Not because she wanted to be naughty, but because Simon told her it was what his daddy called A Portant Life Skill. Simon didn't do _really_ naughty things, like hurt anyone or be mean or steal things, but he said he wanted to be a 'tective like his daddy so he needed to practice the Portant Life Skills.

Like listening. Listening was a Portant Life Skill too and Lydia was very good at listening, Mrs. Simmons and Mummy both said so. Even Mr. Holmes said she was very good at it when he read a letter to Mummy and Lydia, and Lydia could tell him everything he said even if it wasn't in exactly the same order. "She's very observant," Mr. Holmes told Mummy, and Lydia could tell by the way he said it that it was a Compliment. So she thanked him just like Mummy told her was polite and he looked surprised but then he smiled and said "You're very welcome, Miss Lydia" and she wanted very badly to hug him like Simon would have if he'd said it to him.

But for some reason Mummy said no, Lydia couldn't hug Mr. Holmes. She could hug Simon and Mr. John and Mrs. John and Granny Hudson, but not Mr. Holmes. Lydia and Simon thought it had something to do with The Thing, so that's why Lydia was being very quiet at dinner and being as Very Observant as she could and listening hard to everything everyone was saying.

She wasn't trying to listen to things she wasn't supposed to hear, but when she scused herself and went to the loo and came back out, Mr. John and Mrs. John were in the kitchen talking in sort of whispers about how long it was going to take Mr. Holmes to get his head out of his arse (she didn't know that word so she would have to ask Simon what it was because she had a feeling Mummy wouldn't tell her). So Lydia waited in case they said something that would explain what the word meant but instead Mrs. John made a big sigh and said it wasn't just Mr. Holmes, but that Mummy (she called her Molly like all the other grown-ups did) needed to stop worrying that she wasn't good enough to be with Mr. Holmes (but she called him Sherlock of course).

Lydia felt her eyes get very big when she heard that; Mummy was _perfect_ , why wouldn't she think she was good enough for Mr. Holmes? They had dinner here every Sunday and sometimes Mr. Holmes and Simon came to their flat to visit and they went to the zoo and the museums and the parks all the time! Then Lydia thought about how sometimes Mr. Holmes could say things that were mean even though she didn't think he knew he was doing it, and how Mummy would get for-real mad at him, and that just made Lydia mad to know that maybe he made Mummy feel she wasn't good enough for him.

Lydia didn't get for-real mad a lot, but when she did, Mummy said she had her Gran's temper. Lydia knew that meant that she would be happy most of the time but then something would get her so mad she couldn't be quiet about it. For Gran most of the time it was football or rugby or Great-Aunt Mathilda or the post-man.

Right now, Lydia was for-real mad at Mr. Holmes and she stomped into the sitting room where the table was set up. She went right up to Mr. Holmes and stamped her foot on the floor and made fists out of her hands (but kept them down because she wasn't mad enough to hit him yet) and yelled at him, "My Mummy is good enough for you and you better stop making her feel like she isn't! That's not nice!"

Then, because she was Lydia and she didn't like getting for-real mad, she started crying and ran over to Mummy and told her she was sorry for being mean to Mr. Holmes but she knew Mummy was good enough for anyone, even him.

All the grown-ups starting talking very loud except Mummy, who was holding her and telling her it was all right. Simon got up without asking Granny Hudson or his daddy if it was all right and came over and hugged Lydia but didn't say anything either. Mr. Holmes was yelling at Mr. John for upsetting her and Mrs. John was saying very loudly that they didn't know she'd heard them and Mr. John was saying the same thing only even louder and Granny Hudson was saying things like 'it's all right' and 'calm down' and 'isn't the child upset enough'.

"ENOUGH!" Mr. Holmes yelled very loudly. His face, when Lydia peeked up at him, was very red. "Everyone out!" He pointed at the front door and Granny Hudson got up and went out very quickly. Mr. John and Mrs. John still looked mad but they left too. But when Mummy stood up (picking Lydia up in her arms like she was still a little baby), Mr. Holmes shook his head and pointed at her. "Not. You." he said and Lydia could hear that each word was its own sentence. "Simon, take Lydia upstairs to your room so Molly and I can talk. Please."

Lydia wiggled around so that Mummy would put her down. She'd stopped crying because this was all very new and scary but kind of exciting too. Simon promised to take care of her and Mummy set her down after kissing her on the nose. But she kept looking over at Mr. Holmes and there was a funny look on her face. Not a bad-funny, but not a look Lydia remembered seeing before. "I'll be up to get you in little bit, luvvy," she said when she looked at Lydia again.

Lydia nodded and let Simon pull her to the door. He didn't shut it all the way behind them, though, and when Lydia started to go up the stairs to his room he shook his head and gave her a big smile. "Shh," he said and got close to the door. She came closer too, even though she knew it was Not Good to listen at doors like this, but she wanted to know what Mr. Holmes and Mummy were going to talk about. Because if it was going to be a fight and they stopped coming on Sunday's and Lydia only got to see Simon at school she would be very mad and sad and it would be all her fault.

"It's not your fault," Simon whispered, like he could hear what she was thinking. He did that a lot but Mummy and Simon and Mr. Holmes all said it was just because he was Very Observant too. So Lydia nodded even though she wasn't sure he was right this time, and did what she was best at: she listened.

And this is what she heard.

"Molly, I'm sorry if I've hurt you. I know sometimes I can be…difficult…but you knew that about me from the start. I never realized I made you feel like you weren't good enough. That was never my intention, I promise."

"It's all right, Sherlock." Mummy gave a small sigh. "I know you actually treat me better than your other friends, and I know it's because Lydia and Simon are such good friends. Please don't think…it's all right," she said, and her words were coming very fast the way they always did when Mummy was nervous. "I won't ever let things get between the children, even if we're not…even if I'm…oh, I'm just being silly. I should get Lydia, we should go…"

"No, you should stay. In fact, you should stay forever."

Lydia felt her eyes getting very big indeed when he said that, and she saw Simon was smiling his biggest, happiest smile. But then Mummy started talking and Lydia went back to listening. "Sherlock, I don't…"

"For God's sake, Molly, surely you must know how I feel about you by now? Do you actually have to hear me say the words? Fine, then. I love you. I love you, and I love Lydia and I want you both to be a permanent part of my life. My life, and Simon's. He adores you both. So does Mrs. Hudson, and John and Mary. Gavin thinks you're the best thing that ever happened to me besides Simon, and I can't say I disagree." (Gavin was really 'Tective Inspector Lestrade but Lydia held back her usual giggles when Mr. Holmes said his name wrong, because she wanted to hear what else he was going to say.) "Even Mycroft likes you, and when my parents get back from their latest expedition to the wilds of North America and I can properly introduce you both to them, they'll love you just as much as Simon and I do. So will you please just do what we all want – including yourself – and say yes?"

"Say yes to what, exactly?" Mummy asked in a funny voice. The one she had when she was trying not to cry. Lydia wasn't sure why she would be crying right now since all the things Mr. Holmes had said were lovely and nice and not mean at all.

"Marry me. Move in with us. I'll move my laboratory down to the basement flat and turn the room next to Simon's into a second bedroom. And it won't be difficult to talk Mrs. Hudson into letting us renovate the storage space into a third bedroom and add a bath up there as well and…"

Mr. Holmes stopped talking very suddenly and there were some odd noises coming from the room. Lydia looked at Simon, and Simon looked at Lydia, and they both pushed the door open just a little bit wider so they could see what was happening.

Mummy and Mr. Holmes were standing very close to each other. Mummy's arms were around his shoulders and his arms were around her whole body and they were kissing. Simon and Lydia both smiled and hugged each other and did a little happy dance, sort of jumping up and down and giggling.

Mr. Holmes must have stopped kissing Mummy because Lydia heard him say, "Now that we've got that cleared up, will you please let Lydia start calling me Sherlock? There's no need to worry about how she and Simon will feel, since you can see for yourself they're fairly pleased at how things have worked out."

Mummy's cheeks were very pink when she turned to see Lydia and Simon in the doorway. She smiled and knelt down and held out her arms and both Lydia and Simon ran up to her and hugged her. "I guess the four of us are going to be a family now!" Mummy said and Lydia had never been so happy to listen to anything in her whole life.

She thought the same exact thing when she and Simon were six and Mummy and Sherlock each said 'I Do' at their wedding, and she thought the same exact thing again when she and Simon were seven (and again when they were nine), when she heard each of her new baby brothers crying for the first time.

Because listening to her family was Lydia's favorite thing to do.


	17. Ahead of the Game

_thesecitystreets/sherlockian87 on tumblr said: Eeee! Holy cow I didn't realize there were so many AU's … it was tough to pick one, but this particular AU stood out for me: "i jokingly told you that the only way i'd marry you was if you did this weird outlandish thing, and you actually did it, and i'm kind of charmed." Hehe! Can't wait to see what you come up with!_

 _Me: OK, so I had a bit of a struggle for this one until the other day when a light finally went off and I thought: Roman Empire era AU and then the 'weird outlandish thing' became screamingly obvious and I hope you like it. Also apologies for the really bad pun title which will become even more screamingly obvious once you read the whole story, which is rated M for blood and gore and (of course) sex._

 _Oh, I didn't really try very hard with the names since this is basically a PWP. But Sherlock's second name? Totally a real Roman name!_

* * *

"As you requested, my lady."

He thumped the canvas sack down on the table hard enough to rattle the ceramic plates and cups sat on the further end. Molly stared, unable to tear her eyes away from the object the Roman Centurion had just gifted her with – and it _was_ a gift, of that there was no doubt. Not only a gift, but exactly what she'd demanded of him, half in exasperated jest, when last they'd met a fortnight ago.

 _You want me to marry you, Roman? Fine. Bring me the head of Seamus Moriarty. He's my enemy but he's yours too, even if you don't know it yet._

Stunned brown eyes met cool blue-green as she took in the fact that Sherlock Homerus, decorated Roman Centurion and brother to the powerful Roman governor of Britannia, had actually gone to so much trouble just to get her to agree to marry him. They'd met when he'd been wounded in a skirmish outside the city walls; he'd been incredulous that a Brittonic healer would bother saving the life of a Roman soldier, and she'd coolly told him that the Gods valued all lives equally. He'd scoffed at her beliefs, but had allowed her to tend to his numerous wounds. Over the span of six months he'd sought her out and engaged her in many absorbing – and oft-times exasperating – conversations, culminating in a completely unexpected marriage proposal. Well, it had been more of an arrogant demand, but the end result was the same: for some unfathomable reason, he claimed to want to marry her.

"Why?" she asked as she moved closer to the table on which the gruesome bundle had been dropped, ignoring the blood seeping through the coarse canvas to soak the rough-grained wood below.

Because she had to know. Had to know that he'd truly done this for _her_ , and not as part of some political maneuverings, to aid his brother Mycroft, or for some kind of military advantage – not that she could imagine such a thing, but she'd been used once and refused to allow it to happen to her again.

She had no inflated sense of her value: she wasn't a war chieftess like the revered (by Britons) Salonina Donatus, or an influential political figure like the Greek courtesan Eirene Adellus. She was just the daughter of a hooper, an ordinary girl who'd had the misfortune to catch the eye of a Celtic weapon's dealer, to whom her dying father had betrothed her against her protests.

A man whom she discovered was cold-bloodedly supplying both the Romans and the local Brittonic rebels with weaponry – and who she quickly discovered only wanted her to give himself a veneer of respectability as well as ties to the local clans in order to cement his position in their territory.

Sherlock's reasons for wanting her were impossible for her to figure out, if only because the man was an enigma: scholar and warrior, coldly aloof one minute and burning with white-hot intensity the next. A seeker after justice who wouldn't allow the smallest incident to rest no matter who the victim or who the culprit, be they Briton or Roman, and yet a dutiful son of Rome who showed no mercy to her people when in the heat of battle.

"Why?" she asked him again when he made no answer, simply stared down at her as he stood at his full, most imperious height in front of her, the bronze of his armor gleaming dully in the candlelight of her modest home. "Why do this for me? Why do you want to marry me? Why _me_? I don't count…"

He finally moved at that last word, reaching out to pull her close to his body. With one hand he yanked his helmet off, dropping it with a clatter so that it rested next to the bloody sack with its gruesome burden. A burden that, far from horrifying or disgusting her, only raised a fierce joy in her heart. The man who sought to use her and caused so much sorrow had instead met a well-deserved fate at Sherlock's hands. "Never say that, Molly," her would-be husband growled as she turned her face up to meet his. "You've always counted and I've always trusted you." Then his lips crashed down to meet hers, and her doubts were temporarily silenced.

Her hands scrabbled at the clasps to his breast-plate as he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue between her lips in manner that should have horrified and disgusted her, but instead only further aroused her ardor. She felt his fingers undoing the ties to her simple gown, and soon she stood before him utterly naked, feeling simultaneously shy and powerful at the look of pure adoration in his eyes. "Let down your hair," he commanded, and she reached up to undo the pins one by one while he finished removing his armor and tunic.

His hair was cut short, in the normal Roman fashion, and although it still seemed strange to her eyes to see a man with no beard, no braids or shaggy locks hanging about his shoulders, she found it suited him well. More than suited him; the slight curl at the back of his neck as he bent to undo the laces of his sandals was mesmerizing and she longed to feel it beneath her fingers. Sherlock looked up just then; their eyes met, and she gasped as she saw the dark centers expand so that the blue-green irises were nearly obliterated. He lunged for her, pulling her to his lean form, toppling them both to the coarse bearskins covering the cold stone flagons of the floor, her father's one luxury.

She was still a maid, but she'd seen naked men before, in the course of her work as a healer. Never before had she felt one pressed so tightly to her body. The heat of his manhood against her belly was a burning brand, and she felt a corresponding flash of moisture between her legs as he continued to kiss her. His hands were tangled in her waist-length tresses, and her fingers were running over his cropped black locks, damp with sweat but raising a tingle that began in her fingertips and spread throughout her entire body.

He raised himself over her as the kiss ended, and she found the breath and brain to ask him, one last time, "Are you truly doing this for me? You want me just for me and not what I can do for you? You give your word?"

"Molly, in the morning I am dragging you before the priest or priestess of your choice and making you my wife," Sherlock growled as he thrust one leg between hers. "It is against my brother's express wishes and I doubt your clan would approve either. So no, I am not doing this to cement an alliance or gain some sort of advantage. I am doing this because I need…" He paused to kiss her again.

"What do you need?" she asked breathlessly when the kiss ended.

" _You_ ," he said, a world of emotion packed into that one simple word.

She opened her legs to him, moaning as he laid kiss after kiss down the column of her throat. Those plush lips were soon suckling at her breasts while his hands slipped beneath her body and kneaded the soft flesh of her rear. Gladly did she surrender every inch of herself to his questing tongue and soft lips, rejoicing in the pleasure he brought with every kiss and every caress. His fingers slid over her thighs and brushed against the damp curls between her legs; with a moan she felt them slip into her entrance, pressing against her heated flesh until she thought she would combust.

He pulled his fingers away, but only to ease his manhood within her welcoming folds. There was a slight burn as he breeched her maidenhead, but it swiftly faded as he moved within her. Clumsily she sought to match his rhythm, but clumsiness vanished at the sound of a deep groan rising from his throat. "By the Gods, Molly, you have no idea how I've longed for this moment, when I could finally make you mine. You have to marry me now, else be forever branded a fallen woman. Say you will, say you'll marry me." He gave a sharp thrust of his hips and she cried out as pleasure flared through her body, setting her aflame and darkening her vision.

"Yes," she gasped when the power of speech was finally restored to her. "Yes, I'll marry you Sherlock Homerus."

He gave a strangled shout and she felt his seed pulsing into her body, stared unabashedly at the intent expression on his face – eyes clenched so tightly shut, lips pulled back in a near-snarl, those ravishing cheekbones shining with sweat and glistening in the firelight.

Many years later, when their children asked what their father had given their mother as a wedding-gift, she would only smile and nod at the eldest, their son Gaius Virgilius, who would roll his eyes and go back to whatever scroll he'd been studying.

The head in the bag, that was long since sunk to the bottom of a peat bog, would remain her and Sherlock's secret. Seamus Moriarty had chosen the wrong players to align himself in the dangerous game of life.


	18. You Again

_Anonymous said: if you're still taking prompts: there's an overnight IT person at school who always answers the phone when i call about a problem with my computer and i totally have a crush on their voice and their exasperation_ _and ALSO the bakery down the street is always running out of my fave scones and the adorable person behind the counter can't hide their amusement and i think it's super rude but also super cute AU_

* * *

 _A/N: I decided to go with the first idea. If anyone else wants to pick up the second one, please feel free to do so! Also, this is rated M. And unilock._

His voice is amazing, a velvety smooth baritone that can send shivers down her spine even when the words are an exasperated, "What, again? Do you not understand the concept of virus protection?"

Molly's cheeks burn red, and she has to give herself a second before speaking, not wanting him to hear the wobble in her voice. "Yes, I do, but obviously it didn't work. I don't have any access to the internet. So what do I do now?"

"You open the door and let me in when I get there. You're in Bellman, yes? Ah yes, there you are. Molly Hooper, second floor, room 237. Be there in five, have your laptop ready."

He hangs up before she can respond, and there's no answer when she frantically dials the IT Help Desk number again. Oh God, he knows where she is, what if he's coming here to do something awful to her? Or worse, what if he takes one look at her and dismisses her as hopelessly boring as so many other men have done?

Common sense reins in her growing panic. Of course he knows where she is, he's the most brilliant IT person she's ever dealt with, expertly diagnosing her various technology woes over the phone with her ever once having to bring her laptop or tablet out to the office (much to her regret since his voice and his intelligence and his rather blurry photo all combine to make her want an excuse to meet him in person). Not only that, but there's nothing stopping her from leaving her room or calling campus security before he arrives. As for him dismissing her…well, it won't be the first time, as she's already reminded herself, and she'll manage just fine if he turns out to be as shallow as those other blokes. Their loss, she tells herself.

She calms further as she assess her various options. Surely he knows she could leave or gather reinforcements before he arrives; unless he's a complete psychopath with no regard for his personal safety, telling her he was coming whilst planning to do her harm would be utter lunacy on his part.

Two quick phone calls further reassure her; Mary's boyfriend John knows William, and so does their friend Greg. "John says he calls the body 'mere transport'," Mary reports with a giggle. "He barely even notices women, any more than he notices men, at least not in any sort of sexual way. If he says to have your laptop ready, then that's all he's interested in, trust me. But you can ask Greg Lestrade, he knows him too."

Both reassured and vaguely disappointed by Mary's words, Molly calls Greg even though she's no longer as concerned as she was two minutes ago. She can tell he's with his girlfriend Sally and apologies for bothering him at half-ten at night. "No problem, Molls. But yeah, William's an odd duck but he's all right. If you want I can come by and stay with you."

She tells him it's okay, hangs up (but not before promising to call after William leaves to let him know she's fine), and then starts dithering about the state of her room. Meena is spending the night at her boyfriend's flat per usual so her side of the room is spotless, but Molly's is a complete mess. She starts to frantically pick up, stuffing the dirty laundry into the bin under her bed and straightening the covers when she hears a sharp knock at her door.

Oh God, he's here. With a gasp Molly hurries to the door. "Are, are you actually there?" she squeaks out, hardly daring to believe.

"Open the door and find out." Taking a shaky breath, she pulls the door open and finds herself face-to-face – well, face-to-chest – with William from IT. She knows it's him since she's seen his ID, but the grainy photo does him absolutely no justice.

He's tall, at least six feet, with a lean, muscular build that makes her mouth water. His eyes are some indeterminate color between blue and green, and his hair is mop of dark curls, partially dangling over one eye. He's wearing a tight aubergine dress shirt and pressed black trousers rather than the usual student uniform of jeans and hoody, and he's smirking down at her as she gapes up at him. "Y-you shouldn't be here," she stammers out, even though it's the last thing she wants to say to him.

"No, but you shouldn't be having all these ridiculous problems with your laptop, either," he responds. Suddenly they're both in her room with the door closed behind them.

"Where is it, then?" he asks, and it takes Molly longer than it should for her to understand his impatient request. When she finally does, she flushes bright red and gestures wordlessly toward her half-made bed, where the laptop rests amidst a jumble of medical journals and notebooks.

As he settles on the bed, heedless of the twisted blankets, she nervously jokes, "I hope you're not a psychopath. Bloodstains are ridiculously hard to get out of books unless they're very fresh."

"Mm, not a psychopath," he responds absently, fingers positively flying over her keyboard and eyes glued to the screen. "High functioning sociopath, if you must know. Do your research."

Molly can think of nothing to say to this extraordinary statement other than a stammered, "O-okay."

She's not sure what to do with herself while he's busy with her laptop, and wonders guiltily if he'll be able to tell that the problem she was having was, um, slightly exaggerated. With a sigh she settles down on Meena's bed and picks up her mobile. She sends a text to Mary, who asks for a photo, so Molly surreptitiously takes one. His head is bent over the keyboard, those gorgeous, plump lips curled in a frown as he taps away, and she knows she won't be deleting the image any time soon.

Mary's response is immediate and approving: _Gorgeous. Too bad he's ace or I'd tell you to try to break that dry spell you've been suffering through this semester._

 _Trust me, if I thought I had a chance I'd be all over him,_ Molly texts back, biting down on the urge to giggle.

"If that's campus security you're texting, they'll tell you I'm relatively harmless."

Molly's eyes flash up to meet his; he's looking at her with a half-grin on his face, those plush lips curled up deliciously. He nods at her phone as she gapes at him. "Campus security. They know me." The grin deepens. "I get into plenty of trouble, but not the kind you're worried about." Then he goes back to typing on her keyboard.

While Molly grapples with his words, her mobile pings. She automatically looks down and sees Mary's response. _Well at least now you'll have a live image to wank to after he leaves._

This time she can't stop the giggle and knows her face is flushing bright red. "My friend Mary," she explains when William frowns at her. "She um, she's being a bit silly. But she says you know her boyfriend John. John Watson."

"Mm, yes, nice enough fellow but not very bright."

It's Molly's turn to frown. "He's a medical student, he's going to be a doctor," she objects.

William waves a dismissive hand, eyes still on the computer screen. "Still, he's a bit thick. Not his fault, most people are."

Growing angry, Molly asks sarcastically, "Oh, sorry, we all can't be computer geniuses like you." She wishes he'd never come here now, nasty git. It would be harder to fantasize about him knowing how mean he could be.

"There, problem solved," he announces, completely ignoring her words and closing her laptop with a click. He jumps to his feet, grinning triumphantly. The grin fades and his brow creases in confusion as he takes in her combative stance and angry glower. "What? What did I say?"

"You called one of the smartest men I know 'a bit thick'," she says, aggravated beyond belief. Did he really not hear her? "You're a bit too full of yourself, William Holmes. Thanks for fixing my laptop." She nods at the door. "Now leave."

He studies her for a minute before hopping to his feet. "You mean it." He sounds incredulous.

She gives a sharp nod. "Yeah, I do. Why does that surprise you?"

He moves a step closer to her, then stops. "Because I thought you fancied me. No, I _know_ you do. I can hear it in your voice every time you call. And you do call a lot, don't you Molly?" His voice drops to a deeper register and she can't stop the little shiver that goes up her spine. "Considering the fact that you could have fixed this little problem yourself, I can't help but wonder how many of the other problems you've been having were manufactured just so you could talk to me."

Oh, he's absolutely infuriating! (And right, although Molly would never admit it.) "Go," she says forcefully, pointing to the door and hoping she sounds like she actually means it. Because the last thing she wants him to do is leave.

"On one condition."

Heart beating wildly she moves forward, barely aware that she's done so until suddenly they're toe to toe. She looks up (and up) at him, hands on her hips, mobile forgotten on Meena's bed. "You're in no position to make demands," she says, trying for a hard snap in her voice and knowing how utterly she's failing. "At least four people know you're here and if I scream a dozen more will be here before you can blink."

"If you scream because of me, trust me, it won't be to call for help," he says in a husky voice that curls her toes in their mismatched socks and sets the short hairs on the back of her neck on end. He reaches up and curls his fingers around the back of her head, exerting no pressure, and Molly's heart beats wildly in her chest as she stares at him through wide eyes. Waiting with bated breath to see what he'll do next.

He lowers his head slowly, his lips stopping just above hers. Now he's the one waiting for her, and Molly can no more stop her own actions than she could stop the sun from shining; she pulls his head down the last few centimeters and crashes her lips against his.

If he's ace then she's Mother Theresa; that firm, mobile mouth moves against hers; he pulls her close, their bodies flush, and that's a definite erection she feels against her hip. "If it helps, I'll say I'm sorry for calling John thick."

"It helps," Molly breathes, tangling her fingers in his hair and pressing a series of soft, damp kisses to that gorgeous neck of his. "Even though I know you don't mean it." Then she kisses him again, her tongue sliding against his and his hands on her arse.

They stumble back toward Meena's bed, which is about to become even more of mess than Molly's. Not that Molly cares; all she cares about right now is getting William out of his clothes, which appears to be a goal of his as well. Her own clothes are quickly disposed of, heaped carelessly on the carpeted floor next to his, and she drinks in the sight of a naked William Holmes from IT. He's just as gorgeous as she'd imagined, all lean, elegant muscles and pale, nearly hairless skin. His erection is a good size and something she's eager to taste. She shoves him back onto the bed; he lands with a surprised grunt, but the gleam in his eyes encourages her to do what she wants and so she does. She takes his cock in her mouth, sucking hard, one hand cupped around his bollocks while he inhales sharply and winds her hair around one hand.

Without warning their positions are reversed; she'd lying flat on her back and his head is buried between her legs. She feels his tongue against her clit, licking eagerly, and gives a hoarse cry of pleasure. Only one of her previous boyfriends (not that William's her boyfriend) ever went down on her and he was, quite frankly, bloody awful at it. William, on the other hand, is not only enthusiastic (which Previous Boyfriend definitely was NOT) but highly skilled as well, knowing just where to flick her, where to lick her, and where to nip delicately with those perfect white teeth of his.

She's on the brink of orgasm when he pulls away; she mumbles an incoherent protest which he quickly silences with another amazing kiss. The taste of her sex on his lips is a bit odd but she decides she likes it, feeling deliciously debauched as he thrusts his tongue into her mouth. She reaches behind her, fumbling for her messenger bag, forgetting for a moment that she's not lying on her own bed. William lifts his head and gives her a quizzical look when she groans and cuts her eyes across the room. "Condom," he pronounces before she can, quickly hopping to his feet and padding the short distance across the room to her own bed. She follows his graceful form with a great deal of appreciation; the view both away from and towards her is utterly spectacular.

She doesn't even question how he knows which inner pocket of her bag holds the condom (along with a tampon and pad and her packet of birth control bills), just smiles and helps him roll it on before he settles back between her legs. Then he's raising himself slightly, leaning on his elbows while she reaches down and guides him into her, and they both sigh in mutual satisfaction as he sheathes himself fully inside her.

They both begin moving, although not smoothly at first. Then their rhythms sync up and she wraps her legs around his hips, one hand holding onto his shoulder for dear life and the other running through his dark curls. He keeps kissing her – lips, ear, throat, the tip of her nose, even her eyelids when she clenches them shut as her orgasm washes over her. A few artless thrusts later and he's coming just as hard; only the ache in her throat tells her that she must have shouted as loudly as he did. That, and the banging on the wall from Lizzie next door. She and William exchange glances, then burst into a fit of the giggles that lasts until he manages to remove, tie off and dispose of the condom.

She expects him to make his excuses, finish dressing and leave after he throws his pants back on, but instead he clears her bed of laptop and textbooks – and her bra, which landed there instead of on the floor, then beckons her over to join him as he slides beneath the covers. "Well? Unless you want to sleep in your roommate's bed all night."

She giggles and scampers over to join him. "Um, yeah, she would probably be a bit cross if she came back and found us – me – there," she agrees, cheeks still flushed with pleasurable exertion – and a tiny bit of uncertainty. Surely he's just being polite, staying to snuggle a bit before heading back to… "Oh!" she exclaims, looking at him guiltily. "Aren't you still on duty? Shouldn't you be in the office?"

He shakes his head and says "Nope" with an obnoxious pop of the p. "Off duty, traded shifts with one of the other idi…uh, one of the others," he hastily amends himself, much to her surprise. "Wanted to be sure I could leave as soon as you called."

She lowers her eyes and toys with the sheet pulled up to his waist. "So, um, does that mean you wanted to, uh, talk to me as much as I wanted to talk to you?"

"I've wanted to 'talk to you', if you insist on using such a ridiculous euphemism, ever since I first read your paper on using gene therapy to improve the health and lives of dogs," he admitted, pressing a soft kiss to her nose. "Even before I knew anything more about you than your name, I could feel the passion you felt in every word you'd written. I graded the papers for that class as a favor to the professor," he adds. "So when you first called in for help with your laptop, I decided to confirm that you were worth getting to know."

"And the verdict?" Molly asks with a grin, knowing the answer already but wanting to hear it.

"The verdict," William growls as he rolls her beneath him and lowers his head until his lips hover over hers, "is exactly what you think." He kisses her and she feels a certain sensation that tells her they're both ready for round two. She giggles when he adds, "And tell Mary and John to stop speculating about my sex life, or lack thereof. Choosing not to partake isn't the same as not being interested." He kisses her again. "But do feel free to let them know that I am very, very interested in partaking with you."

And partake they both do, for a good part of the morning and well into the afternoon, stopping only because Meena returns after a fight with her boyfriend.

"Well," she says as she comes to an abrupt stop in the doorway, while Molly and William pull up the disarranged sheets, "it's about time Molly had a good shag." Then she leaves, but only after picking up one of William's socks and hanging it on the door handle on the hallway side.

In spite of the fact that Meena never stops teasing her about this, Molly still asks her to be her maid of honor at the wedding two years later. John and Mary, however, become little Meredith's god-mother when she's born six months after that. And Greg and his wife Sally are the god-parents to their second daughter Beatrice two years after that.

All in all, it turns out to be not a bad life for one that started off with mutual pining and a row!


	19. Disaster

_never-too-old-to-be-a-fangirl said: Have only just seen this! I'm almost always on mobile where I can't even see that I've received a message :-( Happy to be of some help and yes, I'd love a little Sherlolly if the offer is still open! So many good AUs listed on your blog - decisions, decisions… I leave it up to your inspiration/mood between these two: "i forgot my umbrella and you offered to walk me home in the rain and i thought this would be the beginning of a cute love story but you're really shit at this oh my god my shoulder is so wet, hold the damn thing properly wth man" au (because their height difference makes me swoon) OR "You were trying to be romantic/seductive but you ran you hand over my thigh and I'm ticklish and now I can't breathe."_

 _I said: I decided to combine these two into a 'Sherlock can't quite manage to get the hang of being romantic' fic. Hope you like it!_

* * *

Disaster. That was the only word for it: complete and utter disaster. Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective, was utter crap at romantic gestures. Molly would realize he could never be the man for her, that he wasn't good enough at any of this, and leave him. And he'd deserve it, not just for ruining the roast he'd tried to cook for their first dinner together.

No, she'd leave him because of the umbrella incident. He'd been doing his best to act like a perfect gentleman and keep the rain off her as he walked her back to her flat. If he'd just let her take the Tube home like she'd wanted to, he'd never have accidentally dumped a veritable waterfall of icy rainwater down the back of her jacket, soaked her jumper, made her screech and jump, cause him to lose his footing, and land them both in a puddle just in time to be splashed by a passing cab. At least the driver had seen them sprawled on the pavement and stopped to offer his assistance. Molly had gratefully accepted his offer to drive her to her flat free of charge (although he'd charged Sherlock for the ride to Baker Street after dropping Molly home) and even managed a bit of a smile for Sherlock when he tried to apologize. "It's all right," she'd said with a bit of a shrug. "I wasn't expecting this to be some cute love story moment."

She'd gone a bit red as soon as she'd finished speaking, turning and fairly racing up the four steps to the front door and vanishing inside.

And all that because he'd misjudged her height. So much for his keen powers of observation.

The next day he'd marched into the morgue and let her know that yes, he actually HAD wanted it to be a cute love story moment. He hadn't messed that part up; he'd taken Molly in his arms and kissed her thoroughly. Well, yes, it was when they were both standing over a body bag, but the zip was still pulled so that was all right, no matter what John said afterwards. Oh, and yes, John and Gavin had been there, but Molly hadn't seemed to mind in the least.

That had been a month ago, and it seemed like the kiss was the last thing he'd really got right in this whole relationship business. Well, no, the other kisses had been just as good, but as for the rest of it…Molly didn't appreciate the flowers he'd sent her, as she associated them with death and they depressed her. John had (thankfully) stopped him from adopting a kitten for her to keep her old tomcat Toby company (although he kept the idea in the back of his mind for after that rangy, mean-tempered animal finally passed away). Too bad he hadn't been there to caution Sherlock about running his fingertips up Molly's thigh during their first heavy make-out session on the sofa at Baker Street, although to be fair, there was no way John could have known Molly was so ticklish either.

Still, her giggles had utterly destroyed the mood and Sherlock had been a bit gun-shy since then, not wanting to make any more mistakes.

And yet here he stood, staring morosely at a burnt roast, eyes stinging a bit from the smoke that was dispersing throughout the flat now that Mrs. Hudson had opened his sitting room windows. He'd just nipped down to the store to get a bottle of Molly's favorite wine and had timed it precisely; the blasted roast shouldn't have been ready for a good five minutes after his return!

The sound of footsteps on the stairs caught his attention; whirling around, he tried to forestall Molly's entrance, but it was too late. She stood in the doorway, staring around with wide eyes, coughing a bit and waving her hand in front of her face. "So," she said after a minute, looking over at him. "Take-away, then?"

He gaped at her as she calmly removed her coat and shoes, hanging the former on a hook near his Belstaff and setting the latter next to his loafers. She sat her handbag on the coffee table, curled up on the sofa and gave him an expectant look.

He shuffled over to join her, allowing her to tug him down to sit next to her. She reached up and carded her fingers through his hair, putting it back to some semblance of order after he'd set it all wildly on end in frustration. "Sherlock," Molly said softly, "you do know you don't have to do all this for me."

"I want you to be happy," he mumbled, leaning his face against her neck and draping his body more or less over hers. "Meat Dagger did all sort of things for you. Romantic things, you said so. Not just sex, but other things. Took you to the pub and for walks with his dog…"

"And I was utterly bored and broke things off with him," Molly reminded him. "And don't call him that, his name is Tom and you know it." She swatted him lightly on the shoulder, then returned to stroking the back of his neck as she continued speaking. "I don't need romantic clichés, Sherlock. I just need you to be you, just like you need me to be me. You haven't asked me to change, and I would never ask you to, either."

He pulled back a bit so he could look her in the eyes. "You mean that," he said wonderingly.

She nodded and smiled, leaning forward to give him a soft peck on the nose. "I mean it," she confirmed. "Now. How about Indian? I could murder a good curry right about now!"

Smiling back, Sherlock gave her a rather longer kiss on the lips before hopping to his feet to fetch his mobile. He put in the order, tossed it to the coffee table next to Molly's handbag, and snuggled down next to her again. "It'll be here in about twenty minutes." His gaze turned as smoky as the room as he asked her, "Any ideas how to pass the time till it gets here?"

"Oh, one or two," she conceded as she allowed him to lay her down on the sofa. "Just remember not to tickle my thighs!"

With a growl, Sherlock dove down and erased her smirk in the most satisfying manner. He really was glad that he'd relearned kissing with such an obliging partner, and was even more glad that Molly didn't think he was such a disaster after all!


	20. Untrue Colors

_sweet-sweet-escape on tumblr said: Can I give you a prompt? I just saw the link in your series and the list of prompts! I didn't know you were taking prompts, super, happy, double excited! This is the one I pick: au where you have a stripe of your soulmates haircolor on your wrist and if they dye their hair your stripe changes colors au. I'm prompting this one because I love soul mate au's but also cause it sounds really awful and I think if anyone at all in the world can make it great it would only be you! Hehehe_

 _A/N: Not sure about great, but I did my best. Enjoy!_

* * *

First it was a pale golden blond. That lasted until Molly was six months old, according to her mother and of course the photo she'd taken when Molly was first born. It gradually faded to a dark auburn, and then a glossy dark brown that lasted until she was about twelve. She came home from school crying because right in the middle of maths it turned bright, unnatural red, and she was convinced her soulmate had been in a fire or something equally horrible. It had taken Maggie Hooper a good hour to calm her daughter down and explain to her that the soulstrip changed with artificial coloring as well as any natural changes. Such as going from blond to auburn to brown, as her soulmate had done during her childhood. "Remember, luv, your hair was quite red when you were born and now it's this lovely shade of cinnamon. But if you ever decide to color it your soulmate will know. At least you know he's not afraid of making a statement with his hair!"

By the time she was eighteen, Molly was quite used to the radical color changes, and entertained herself by making up stories to match each new color as it appeared. Her favorite was when her soulstrip had gone rainbow colored; blues, greens, even faint flecks of amber and brown. She fancied her soulmate had his hair done up in a Mohawk or some equally outlandish hairstyle.

When she was twenty and had yet to meet anyone whose photolog matched the one she and her mother had put together over the years, she grew annoyed; how difficult could it be to find the one person in the world who'd dyed his hair so frequently and in such a range of colors? Surely the blue-green-with-flecks-of-amber wasn't one often seen! Why didn't her soulmate put his photolog on the web like most people did, in hopes of having it recognized?

Between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight she noticed a pattern forming: a year or so with all sorts of outrageous color changes, followed by a gradual return to the original glossy brown for about six months or so, then back to the flamboyant dye jobs.

After that and until she turned thirty she saw the soulstrip change colors only once before reverting to the dark brown.

It was dark brown hair she saw when she walked into the morgue on the morning of her thirtieth birthday, hair on the head of man bent over and apparently examining a corpse still lying in its body bag. Probably her 11:30 autopsy, but she was unable to focus on work right at the moment. Especially when her soulstrip began itching like mad. She reached over to scratch it just as the stranger straightened up and reached for his own left wrist.

Without turning around, he said, "I suppose your hair is a sort of cinnamon-brown shade?"

His voice was a deep baritone that sent shivers up her spine, and when he turned to face her as she approached him, she thought she'd never seen a more beautiful man in her entire life.

He studied her as intently as she was studying him. "You're the new pathologist," he said, then corrected himself after a quick look at her ID badge. "Sorry, specialist registrar."

"Yes, I'm Molly, Molly Hooper," she said, her voice a bit shaky as she extended her left hand, hauling up her sleeve so he could see her soulstrip. "I quite like the brown, but my favorite was the…" She fell silent as she got a good look at his eyes. "Oh," she said as she stared up at him. "That's why you picked those colors. To match your eyes."

His lips – a perfect Cupid's bow, plump and very kissable – quirked up in a smile. "You liked that one, did you? It was the one time I decided I wanted to give my potential soulmate a clue as to my identity without resorting to the idiotic Lonely Hearts' websites that have sprung up in recent years."

"They're not Lonely Hearts' websites," Molly objected. "They're meant to help soulmates connect. What's wrong with that?"

He shrugged. "Takes all the challenge out of it and frankly cheapens the concept of having a soulmate in the first place. The idea is that you're destined to find this perfect match, isn't it? That you don't need government registries and electronic data manipulation to find the one you're meant to be with for the rest of your life."

She hadn't thought of it that way, and although she wasn't entirely sure she agreed with him, she couldn't say she disagreed either. "What's your name, or is that something I'm supposed to be destined to know as well?" she asked with a small grin.

He snorted. "If that were the case then we'd have each other's names mystically tattooed onto our skins rather than hair color. The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

He turned to leave, his coat flaring out dramatically while Molly stared after him, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. "What address?" she called after him.

"The flat I'm thinking of taking," he replied as he reached the doors, pausing to glance at her over his shoulder. "Meet me there when you shift is over and we can discuss our first date."

"Coffee?" she suggested.

He nodded. "Perfect, we'll make it our first date instead. Black, two sugars."

Then he was gone, and Molly had only a few hours to daydream about her first date with her soulmate.

Whoever he turned out to be, she had a feeling he was about as far from ordinary as the many colors of his hair had been.


	21. Hello, Nurse!

_missmollybloom on tumblr said: 1900*! Well done - and well deserved! Can I please have "I just came out of surgery and I'm convinced you're my partner but you're the just the long suffering (and super hot) trainee nurse" AU ? Thanks lovely!_

 _*followers_

 _Enjoy, folks! Rated T for some suggestive things being said. Thanks to everyone who reviews and favorites and takes the time to read my scribblings. I appreciate it very much!_

* * *

"Why won't you hold my hand, sweetie? I love it when you hold my hand." A pout, no effect. "I wanna hold your haaaaand!" warbled off-key and slightly slurred had exactly the same effect: nil.

Molly frowned and closed her eyes as the medication once again pulled her toward unconsciousness. "Some fiancé you are," were the last waking words she mumbled. Grumbled, actually, but Sherlock hid his fond amusement behind the bland caregiver façade he'd been cultivating for the past two days while acting the role of 'William Scott, Student Nurse.'

He wasn't sure if it was just bad luck or some kind of cosmic joke that he'd traced the culprits behind his current case – smuggled body parts, inventively hidden inside cadavers – to the very same hospital where Molly was recovering from having her appendix removed. A cliché illness and the far-fetched coincidence of him being assigned to her floor made this the perfect French farce of a situation. All it needed to give it that extra element of over-the-topness would be for her real fiancé to show up and accuse her of infidelity.

Because of course she'd mistaken him for that idiot Tom. Who wasn't actually her fiancé any more than Sherlock was, but still. Clearly she'd gotten confused and thought she was still engaged. He thought about trying to explain it to her, but decided not to as she smiled dreamily at the small pitcher of water on her bedside table. It would be too much to try to explain to her drug-befuddled brain. And she'd be mortified if she ever found out that she'd done so, which was why he was still pretending to be 'William Scott' even though there was no longer any need for the false identity he'd assumed.

"Wanna hold your hand," she mumbled again petulantly, not quite as asleep as he'd thought she was. She groped blindly, eyes still shut tight, and he allowed himself a moment of indulgence. "I'll hold your hand, my dear," he said, pitching his voice higher than usual and trying to sound somewhere between soothing and exasperated. The way Mary sounded when someone was being particularly difficult in the clinic. "But only till you fall asleep. Then I've got rounds to make and other people's hands to hold."

She cracked open one eye and glared at him. "Nope. Jus' mine." She squeezed his hand in emphasis, although he doubted anyone less observant than himself (i.e., pretty much every other human being on the planet) would have been able to notice the weak movement. "You're way too hot, s'not fair. Only _my_ hand, promise. _My_ fiancé, no one else's. _My_ Sherlock."

He froze when she spoke his name; so it wasn't Tom she was mistaking him for after all! And she hadn't been fooled by his ginger-colored hair and sideburns, the prosthetics in his cheeks to disguise his rather distinctive zygomatic arches, or the alteration of his voice. Even without her contacts or glasses, she'd recognized him. "You see me," he said in a low voice, feeling a bit stunned.

She squeezed his hand again, this time a bit more strongly. "Course I do, I always see you," she slurred. "I love you." Giving a happy little sigh, her lips curled up in a smile – and she began to snore while Sherlock stared at her in stunned, very belated, comprehension.

 **oOo**

Molly woke up and stared blankly at the sight that met her eyes: a blurry white nothing. So she wasn't wearing her contacts, then. Right. Better grab her glasses. She reached over to grope for the dark plastic frames which should have been right on her bedside table, but instead banged her wrist against something. Something metal. A bedrail?

Memory came back in a rush; she was in hospital. Appendix taken out, although she wasn't in as much pain as she thought she should be. Why was that again? Oh yeah, morphine. She lifted her arm to look at the IV, only to discover that her hand was being…held?

A squint showed her that yes, someone was holding her hand. Someone who'd lowered the bedrail on that side of her hospital bed and was snoring lightly, his ginger curls falling engagingly over his eyes and obscuring his face. Not that she could catch too many details anyway, not without her glasses or contacts, but there was something about the sleeping man's form that rang a bell or two. And not alarm bells, either. She looked closer at the hand holding hers and fought back a nervous giggle as she recognized those long, elegant, violinist's fingers.

"Sherlock?" she whispered, not wanting to startle him – but definitely wanting to know why he was sleeping on her bed with a ginger dye job and wearing…was it nursing scrubs? Sure looked like it from where she lay!

The sound of a door opening caught her attention, and she looked over, squinting harder but relaxing as soon as she heard the newcomer speak. "Oh my God, isn't that the cutest thing! I have GOT to get a snap!"

"Mary, put that phone away or I'll tell John you've been editing his blog on the sly."

That was Sherlock, who was now sitting up…but still holding Molly's hand. With his free hand he reached over the bed and picked something up from the side-table. "Here, I imagine you'll be wanting these."

Her glasses. Yes, she was definitely wanting them, although it was a bit hard to fumble them onto her face with only one hand. She managed it, though, not wanting to give up Sherlock's hand until he let go of hers.

Which, it would seem, he was in no hurry to do. "Mary, as you can see Molly's doing just fine. Don't you have a baby to nurse or something?"

Unfazed by Sherlock's unwelcoming attitude, Mary Watson continued to Molly's bed, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek in greeting. "Well, I see you've got a private nurse now, so I shan't stay long, but I wanted to check in on you. How are you feeling?"

"A bit confused, actually," Molly confessed with a nervous giggle. "I know why you're here, but, um, Sherlock? Why are you dressed like a nurse?"

"Undercover," he replied succinctly. "Assisting Lestrade with a small case. Finished now."

Mary's grin was impish as she craned her head to read his nametag. "Well, Nurse 'William Scott', it's very good of you to go above and beyond the call of duty like this." She nodded at his and Molly's joined hands.

Sherlock looked defiantly back at her, but didn't let go. Molly still had no idea what to make of it all. But when she tried to withdraw her hand, self-conscious now that they had an audience, he tightened his grip and turned his gaze on her. "You said you wanted to hold my hand, Molly," he said in his deepest, most bone-melting voice.

"I-I said that?" she stuttered, wincing as she did so. God, she hated when she stuttered around him! And it had been years since she'd done so. Stupid drugs.

He nodded. "You said I was your fiancé, as a matter of fact." Even though Mary was still watching as raptly as any soap opera fan in front of the telly, he lifted Molly's hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the knuckles. "Said I was _your_ Sherlock. Even drugged to the gills and no glasses and with me in disguise, you knew it was me." He leaned closer; unconsciously, she mimicked his movements until their faces were only inches apart. "Did you mean it, Molly? Do you actually love me?"

Her cheeks were flaming and she barely heard Mary's hasty, "OK, then, that's my signal to go nurse my baby or something. Later, you two!"

The sound of the door being closed caught her attention only briefly, and she felt a slight flutter of panic when she realized they were alone. Would he laugh and tell her he'd done that simply to get Mary out of the room?

She had her answer when he closed the small distance between them and kissed her.

"Yes," she said when the kiss ended. "I meant it. I love you. And I'm guessing – hoping, actually – that wasn't a 'letting me down gently' kiss?"

"Nope," he replied with a warm smile. "It's a 'finally getting my head out of my arse' kiss. I thought…after everything that's happened in the last year, I thought you'd stopped feeling that way about me. I'd resigned myself to just being your friend, or at least as good a friend as I can manage." He caressed her cheek lightly, just the tips of his fingertips brushing against her flesh. "So good to know I didn't miss my chance."

"Never," she breathed, but before he could close in for a second kiss, she giggled again. "Sorry! It's just…you really missed your calling, Sherlock." When he gave her a puzzled squint, she explained. "Your bedside manner, it's amazing. The world lost a great nurse when you decided to go into crime solving instead!" Then she kissed him, softly squeezing his hand, happiness bubbling over when he kissed her back.

"Yes, well, be warned, Molly; as soon as you've recovered from your surgery, I intend to show you exactly how amazing my 'bedside manner' really is!"

That, she decided as he kissed her again, was a moment she was more than looking forward to!


	22. Forever

_kendrapendragon asked: The morning after thing: "Are you sneaking out on me?" And Sherlock saying it, if you will. Or Khan. That would be nice, too. Thank you! :)_

 _A/N: Just a little drabble but I think it says it all. Enjoy, and thanks as always for your lovely comments and reviews, I appreciate them all so very much._

* * *

"Well? Are you? I know you are, don't bother answering that. Just tell me why."

Sherlock sounded plaintive and lost, in a way Molly could never have expected. She dropped her armful of clothes and hurried back to the bed. "I'm sorry, I just thought you'd, you know, want me to be gone. When you woke up. I know this was just a one-off, it's just because of the case…"

He kissed her, holding her close and easing them both back under the covers. "Molly, I thought you understood me when I said I wanted you. Not just for sex, certainly not just for a one-off." He kissed her again, slowly and lovingly. "Forever, Molly. I want you forever. Say you'll stay?"

She gazed up at him with eyes full of love. "Of course," she whispered as she tenderly stroked his cheek. "Forever."


	23. Repopulate

_saffysmom asked: Congratulations on your follower milestone! You deserve all accolades! Can I ask for this AU in Sherlolly please? Any rating you want. "we're strictly 'platonic' but we're snowed in omg we're gonna have to repopulate the earth"_

* * *

"Ooh, that's done it!" Molly said gleefully. "We're proper snow-bound now! No mobile signal, no one around for miles to dig us out…may as well be on the moon!" She gave him an impish grin over her shoulder as she snapped the curtain shut. "It's like one of those movies, you know? Only the two of us left alive…nothing for it, guess we'll have to do our part to repopulate the world! You know, for science!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and poured out the wine, watching as she skipped her way back to the table. "Don't be ridiculous, Molly. This is just a simple snowstorm; you and I aren't the last man and woman on the planet, and we'll be out of here in less than forty-eight hours. No need for world-repopulating just yet."

"Unless," Molly pointed out with a chipper grin as she snagged her glass, "you're wrong."

He blinked at her. "We-elll," he replied, drawing out the word as he pretended to consider what she'd just said, "I suppose that's possible. I have been wrong once or twice before. However, in this case, I think it's safe to say that the world will carry on without us even if we don't add to its population tonight."

Molly let forth a long, dramatic sigh. "Of course it will, Sherlock." She gave him a grin and a rueful shake of the head as she took another sip of her wine. "I have to admit, I'm a teensy bit disappointed you didn't get all flustered from me teasing you like that. Once was a time…"

"Once was a time when you got all flustered just by looking at me," Sherlock was quick to counter. "Then I 'died' and came back and found a Molly Hooper who was wasn't at all intimidated by me. Which," he added with a sip of his own wine, "I must say I quite like. What I didn't like, however, was the inconvenient fiance." He stood up, pushed his chair back, and deliberately leaned over the table, resting his hands on the well-polished oak.

"And why," Molly asked, also rising to her feet and leaning forward, a soft smile touching her lips, "was Tom so inconvenient?"

"Because with him around, I could never do this," Sherlock replied, removing the slight distance remaining between them and pressing his lips to hers.

Later, when they lay contentedly in one another's arms in front of the roaring fire, listening to the storm howling outside the windows, Sherlock spoke again. "So. About this idea you had for repopulating the Earth…how soon can you go off your birth control?"


	24. On the Tube

_limajoro asked: For your February prompts, if you are so inspired - 'you're a celebrity incognito trying to hide from paparazzi and you're sitting right next to me and i'm the only one that recognizes you' au - a bit of a "Notting Hill" feel to it? - Sherlolly, of course!_

 _A/N: Not sure if I got the "Notting Hill" vibe you were looking for, but I hope you like this little ficlet! Thanks for the prompt!_

* * *

She did a double-take, then a surreptitious triple-take as she tried to figure out why the man sitting next to her on the Tube looked so familiar. It wasn't work, she knew everyone in the small clinic where she was doing her internship. It wasn't from school…probably? Not that she knew everyone in her class but she was positive she'd have remembered this one. She'd always had a thing for tall, dark and brooding, and this guy had that in spades.

If he wasn't wearing sunglasses she would have a better idea; she'd always been excellent at knowing someone by their eyes even if the rest of their face was obscured. Her friend Meena said it was positively uncanny, but it was a talent Molly was extremely proud of.

Finally he moved his head, just a little, hunching deeper into the upturned collar of his dark coat (a Belstaff, quite posh and far beyond her humble means), but as he did so his sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose and that was all the clue she needed to recognize him. As he jammed the lenses back up with one finger, his face scrunching in annoyance, she could barely contain her excitement: she, humble little Molly Hooper, was sitting on the Tube next to the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

"If you give my identity away to anyone I can assure you, miss, that I am fully capable of making you regret it."

"Paparazzi?" she asked, instinctively keeping her voice as low as his. No one was paying any attention to them; the man sitting on his other side was dictating some sort of notes into his mobile, and the teenagers next to her both had their earbuds in and the glazed expressions of someone deeply into the music they were listening to. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. I promise I won't even ask for your autograph or a, a…free deduction or anything!"

She couldn't help the embarrassed giggle that escaped her lips, but squelched as quickly as she could, nervously pressing her fingers to her lips before dropping them back to her knapsack where it rested on her lap.

He turned his head to look at her fully, and she blushed a bit at the intensity of his gaze. It was just like she'd heard it described by so many others: as if a spotlight was being shone on her, dazzling and intimidating at the same time. All without him doing more than scan her head to toe and back again.

With a slight nod, he turned his head forward again. "I believe you, Miss Hooper." He hesitated a moment, then added even more quietly, "Thank you."

"No problem," she managed after a moment. As the train came to a halt two stops before her own, she couldn't help wondering what he'd deduced about her in that brief moment of his attention; what about her made him believe her? His knowing her name, well that was easy enough; her school ID was hanging from the zip to her knapsack. Easy peasy, as her nephew would put it.

"You're twenty-two…no, twenty-one. One sibling, at least one niece or nephew, one living parent - mother, most likely - and you're in medical school. You changed from oncology to pathology as your concentration of study and you're not sure if you've made the right decision."

The words came out in a low monotone, but Molly heard every single one, and gaped at him in astonishment as he fell silent. "How did you…"

"The only thing I can't quite deduce is whether or not you have a significant other, Miss Hooper. Do you?"

Okay, well that was unexpected! "Um, no, not right now," she finally said, wondering what that had to do with anything. Why would someone as famous as Sherlock Holmes want to know if she had a boyfriend?

Reaching into one pocket, he scribbled something on a small rectangle of cardboard, then flicked it at her as he rose gracefully to his feet. "I, I don't understand," she stammered as she stared up at him.

His lips curved in a smile as he pulled the sunglasses from his face and dropped them carelessly into his coat pocket. "By appearing to engage me in small talk - something I am never known to have the patience to endure - you've managed to convince the photographer who was stalking me that he was mistaken as to my identity. He got off the train at the last stop, and now I'm safe to be myself once again." He nodded at the card as the train screeched to a stop. "You already know my name, that's my home address, the one not known to the general public. Do me the honor of joining me for dinner sometime? I find I'd like to get to know a bit more about you than a five minute Tube ride allowed me to deduce."

Then he was gone, joining the milling crowds exiting the car, while she gawked after him, the business card held tight in her hands.

She looked down; as he'd said, it wasn't his Montague Street flat that was listed, but one she'd never seen in association with his name.

"221B Baker Street," she mouthed, not daring to read the address aloud. Just in case.

She laughed aloud, however, when she turned it over and read what he'd written on the back.

 _Come on Friday if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

Oh, she couldn't _wait_ to curl up with her diary tonight!


	25. Unexpected Force

_sweet-sweet-escape asked: I don't know how you do these so quickly?!_ _but since you do... Could I please request: No. 46 Are the only people in a movie theater together.._

 _SPOILERS FOR STAR WARS: THE FORCE AWAKENS_

 _Anonymous asked: Sherlolly prompt (Star Wars spoiler: if you haven't seen the force awakens don't read) Sherlock and Molly go see the new Star Wars movie and for the rest of the night he just keeps bitching about the fact that Han Solo was killed and won't shut up long enough to let Molly sleep._

 _Combining the two prompts cause they seemed pretty serendipitous to me. No apologies for any bad jokes; the title of the story should have warned you. Rated T for stuff at the end of the story._

* * *

Molly was thoroughly enjoying the fact that there was no one else in the theater with her.

At least, she was until she heard another person enter as the last of the previews started. Well, as long as they didn't sit in front of her, she decided magnanimously, she wouldn't complain.

But when the newcomer not only chose the same row she was in, but actually sat in the seat next to her…that, she wasn't about to put up with. No pervert was going to ruin her enjoyment of her fifteenth viewing of Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Even if she had to get an usher in here to make the guy move - and it was definitely a guy even if all she'd glimpsed of him was a tall silhouette - she wasn't going to let anyone spoil her evening.

"You've already seen this fourteen times, Molly, I really don't understand why you felt compelled to see it again."

Molly, who'd been about to unleash on her unwanted neighbor, sighed instead. Loudly. "Sherlock, what are you doing here? You hate going to the cinema!"

"Bored," he said succinctly, and she rolled her eyes.

"Here," she said, turning and thrusting the bag of jelly babies she'd purchased into his hands. "Eat these. Slowly. And when you're done, no matter what happens on the screen, you are NOT to speak. Not until the end credits are rolling. Or else no morgue access for two months unless you're with Lestrade or Dimmock. Got it?"

"Got it," he replied, but only after a lengthy enough pause that she suspected he was going to argue with her.

He was, unbelievably, completely silent throughout the entire movie, although she heard him shifting about a few times once the jelly babies had been completely consumed. He remained silent, as per her instructions, all the way up until the end credits began rolling.

After that, however, all he did – on their way out of the cinema, in the cab ride back to her flat, up the stairs to her flat, after they'd entered her flat – was complain about the fact that Han Solo had been murdered by his own son. For no legitimate reason.

Molly let him carry on all that time, partially out of bemusement that he'd latched onto that one (admittedly devastating) plot point, and partially because she was curious to see how long it would take him to wind down. The answer, it would appear, was never; he didn't stop even after she made them both mugs of tea, or when she disappeared into the bathroom to put her pyjamas and robe on, or when she carried an armful of bedding into the living room on the assumption that one of them (probably her) was going to be sleeping on the sofa tonight.

When she started putting the sheets down, however, he finally shut up long enough to ask her what she was doing. "What does it look like I'm doing? I assume you came home with me because you plan to stay overnight, and since you can't seem to stop ranting about Kylo Ren, I figured I'd just get things ready at the same time. Did you even notice I'd left the room and gotten changed?" she added, indicating her pyjama-and-robe-clad self.

"Of course I did," he snapped, viewing her apparel with obvious disapproval. "Honestly, Molly, how many pairs of kitten-patterned pyjamas do you own?"

"Not quite all of them," she replied cheerfully, relieved he'd finally calmed down about the movie. "But that's my goal, thanks for noticing, to own every pair of kitten-patterned pyjamas ever made."

He rolled his eyes and she gave him a cheeky grin, quickly followed by a yawn she didn't bother stifling. "All right, if you're planning on a night of crap telly and pacing, the sofa is yours. If you actually want to sleep, I'd rather skip the cajoling and whining part of the evening; you can have my bed. Which is it?"

"Do you think our child would ever want to murder me in cold blood?"

Well, THAT had come out nowhere!

"Uh, what?"

"Our child, Molly," he replied, beginning to pace. "Would our child ever want to murder me in cold blood? I mean, my best friend tried to throttle me once and has admitted to wanting to punch me almost every time I open my mouth, and you've been angry enough to slap me – not that I didn't deserve it – so what about our child?"

"Sherlock, stop saying 'our child' like we're in some kind of romantic relationship," Molly practically begged him. Oh God, she'd gotten over him, she really thought she had, why was he doing this to her now? "If you ever have a child, then yes, at some point the kid will want to kill you, probably when they're in their early teens going through a rebellious stage. All kids feel like murdering their parents at some point, at least in my experience." This conversation was far too serious; time to interject a joke, if only to hear him tell her not to make them. "If it's any comfort, I doubt it'll be because they want to join the Dark Side of the Force …unless maybe it's the dark side of the police force!"

Sherlock scowled, but instead of chastising her for her (admittedly terrible) sense of humor, he instead pivoted and stalked toward her, taking her arms in his hands and staring intently down at her. She tilted her head and stared up at him, still not quite sure what was going on. "I said our child because if I ever have any children you're the only woman I can imagine being their mother. And what do you mean, we're not in a relationship?" he asked, not taking a single breath between sentence and question. "We're definitely the Han and Leia part of this equation; we might spend time apart but we always find our way back to each other." He reached up and tenderly brushed her hair from her face. "I just…I'm rubbish at letting the people I care about know how I feel. And I can't stop wondering if that's the way Han Solo was, rubbish about letting his son know he loved him."

Molly watched him swallow, hard, and held her breath, feeling a growing sense of hope – a new hope, as it were – about what his next words might be.

"I love you." She let out her breath in a whoosh as Sherlock quietly said those three little words, the ones she'd long since given up on ever hearing from him, at least directed toward herself. "Molly? Say something?"

She raised herself up on tiptoes, laid her hands on either side of his face in order to draw his head down, and kissed him. Slowly. The ways she'd wanted to do for years now. He wasted no time in returning the kiss, drawing her close until their bodies were pressed tightly together.

When the kiss ended, she grinned up at him. "I love you too, Sherlock, although I think you already knew that."

"I suspected," he said in a low voice, still holding her close. "Erm, Molly, do you think we could share your bed tonight?" He moved his hips suggestively, allowing her feel the hard ridge of his desire. "Let's just say it wasn't only the Force that was awakened tonight!"

Molly couldn't help the laughter from bubbling up even as she started backing toward her bedroom.

She should have known his sense of humor was just as bad as her own!


	26. Crying Part 1 - Four AM

_A/N: Originally this was going to be a simple little prompt fill in my Sherlolly AU Prompts collection of one-shots. Then I decided to write a follow-up. Well, I've written the follow up...and I think it needs another follow-up. This chapter and the continuation of the story are now a stand-alone fic called "No Use Crying", so if you liked it here go read the rest of it (so far) there!_

 _Rated T for some swearing and naughty thoughts._

* * *

 **Part 1: Four AM**

Sherlock sighed, rolled over, put his pillow over his head and tried to get back to sleep. No luck. With a grunt he sat up, shoved the same pillow behind his shoulders and let his head fall back against the wall with a loud _thunk_.

This noise cause a brief pause in the sounds emanating from the bedroom on the other side of the wall, but only a pause. Then it started up again; the sounds of a woman crying and not even trying to muffle the noises. Intolerable.

"It's four o'clock in the morning," he grumbled loudly. Speaking to the unknown woman who'd only recently come to occupy the adjoining flat in the off-campus housing. "You do know your incessant crying woke me up, right?" Thirty-six hours he'd been awake, finishing up a last-minute project for his ass of a biochem professor, then two hours asleep and now here he was, wide awake again and royally pissed off.

There was another pause, longer than the previous one, then he heard her muffled response: "It's not my fault the walls are like tissue paper. Just….put in some ear plugs or something."

His eyebrows levitated toward his hairline; she sounded not at all contrite, as he'd expected. No, she sounded just as irritated as he was. Interesting. But not interesting enough that he wanted to continue hearing her sobs through the wall. "You could go cry in your living room instead."

He winced at the sound of a loud bang on the wall, very near his head. The flat thump of a fist, or he wasn't the deductive genius he'd always prided himself on being. Her next words proved that he'd well and truly pissed her off, which was fine with him, since he was rapidly losing what little patience he'd possessed.

"You could go fuck yourself you insensitive git. Or, here's an idea, maybe ask me why I'm crying? Offer a little sympathy? You didn't even ask if I was in pain, I could be dying over here!"

"Pure melodrama," he scoffed. "Your tears are clearly emotional in nature. And if you were in that much physical pain, you'd have dialed emergency services yourself."

"What if I don't have a phone?"

He rolled his eyes. "Everyone has a phone, Miss…whatever your name is."

"Molly, Molly Hooper. And I prefer Ms."

"And I prefer to be sleeping at four am, MS Hooper," he shot back, unable to keep a smirk from forming on his lips. If he was going to be wide awake after only two hours' sleep, then at least he was being entertained. His annoyance had faded as the conversation between the two of them continued to evolve in ways he couldn't have predicted.

"Sure, that's why I hear you banging around your flat at all hours," she scoffed. "But you don't hear me pissing and moaning about it, do you? No, you don't, and you know why? Because I know how to be a courteous fucking neighbor, that's why!"

"Courteous neighbors stifle their sobs or cry in the shower so no one can hear them," he replied with an eye-roll. With a sigh, he asked, "So what's his name?"

"Whose name?"

"The idiot who broke your heart."

There was a long silence after his question, long enough that he wondered if she'd left the room, too upset to continue the conversation. Which, he assured himself, would be fine with him; he wasn't _actually_ interested in why she'd been crying, only in getting her to stop. Which he'd accomplished, so therefore if she wasn't going to continue, it was no skin off his nose…

"Edward," she said, the name a bit more muffled than the rest of their conversation had been. "His name was Edward. And he wasn't an idiot; it's not his fault."

"So you dumped him? Or he dumped you because of something you'd done?"

"No one dumped…he left." He had to strain to hear her. "But it wasn't his fault. So being mad at him is stupid. I'm the idiot."

Sherlock pondered her words for a long minute, mentally sifting through every nuance, everything she'd said and the things she hadn't said. And when he had reached the inevitable conclusion, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled on his discarded jeans and said, "Tea."

"Sorry?"

"Tea," he replied. "Social convention dictates that I offer you tea as well as my condolences on your recent loss."

"How, how did you…"

"Father or brother?" he asked, cutting into her stuttering confusion.

"Father," she said after another longish silence.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sorry?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the flat number, as you already know, is 221B. I'm putting the kettle on now, unless you'd rather just meet me at that 24-hour place down the road? Safety in numbers an all that? Or you could ring the landlady, Mrs. Hudson knows me and can vouch for my character."

He could practically hear her thinking it over; her silence was louder than her crying had been. "No, it's fine, thanks for the offer, but I'll just…"

"Tea," he said again as he groped for a t-shirt, still not bothering with the light. "And I think I have some biscuits. My mother and Mrs. Hudson would both have my hide if I didn't do something more for you. At the very least I owe you some kind of apology if my odd hours have kept you up. I'll leave the door open, just come in as soon as you've made yourself as presentable as you think you need to be."

He was heartened by the soft sound of a chuckle; his mother would be extremely proud of him right now. He made a mental note to send her an email later, if he didn't end up accidentally insulting his new neighbor again.

"Yes, all right," she – Molly – said. "See you in a minute, Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he called, already halfway to the bedroom door.

"Thanks. For everything."

He grinned as he headed for his small kitchen. Mycroft would be appalled but Mummy would, indeed, be proud of him. For the first time since meeting Victor Trevor, he actually had made a positive connection with someone at uni. So until he did something to infuriate her again – bound to happen with his track record – he would definitely count this as another hesitant step toward friendship.


	27. Dates

_Welovesherlolly said: Sherlolly :3 we've been on a few dates and my child just asked me when we're getting married :3_

 _A/N: Soo...I've very loosely defined dates for this prompt, hope you enjoy it! Rated K and unabashedly fluffy._

* * *

"Mummy? When are you and him getting married?"

Molly stopped short, staring down at her five-year-old daughter. "Sweetie, what are you talking about? Me and who?"

"You an' Mr. Holmes," Lizzie replied. They were on their way to the St. Barts' crèche after she'd been dropped off by Molly's best friend Mary, which was the only reason Molly could think might have spurred her daughter's odd question.

"Why would I get married to Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

Lizzie shrugged and stared down at her shoes. "Frankie at school says when mummies aren't married an' they go on dates then they get married. An' you an' Mr. Holmes have been on lots of dates." She looked back up at her mother.

Molly glanced quickly down the hall; no one was coming in either direction, so she gently tugged at Lizzie's hand, pulling her to side as she stooped down so they were at eye-level. "Sweetie," she said gently, "Mr. Holmes and I haven't been on any dates. We're just work colleagues. I explained that to you, right? How he works with Detective Inspector Lestrade and the other police to solve cases?"

Lizzie nodded again. "Yeah, but Mummy, you've gone to his flat to help him three times, an' that's like a date. I know it is cause you don't wear your normal clothes when he calls an' asks you to come over. You get all pink when you talk to him an' you do that thing with your hair." Lizzie mimed twirling a lock of hair around her index finger and pursed her lips in a simpering smile.

Molly felt her face getting very pink indeed as she groped for the right way to explain to her daughter that Mr. Holmes wasn't interested in going on actual dates - with Molly or anyone else, for that matter. She thought briefly about explaining about his 'special friend' John Watson, but decided it wouldn't be fair to tell Lizzie something that was purely speculation on her mother's part. "Sweetie, Mr. Holmes and I are just...just work colleagues, and that's all," she said firmly. "He likes me to help him with experiments sometimes just like I help him and the police with my job. They're not dates." Much as she might daydream otherwise.

"Well I wish they were dates cause I know you like him and it makes me sad that Daddy got married to someone and you didn't yet."

Molly wasn't quite sure what to say to that, but before she could come up with the right words, there came the sound of a throat being cleared from directly behind her. She jumped a bit and almost toppled over, stopped only the firm grip of a hand on her arm. She looked up, her face flushing absolutely scarlet as she realized who the hand belonged to: Sherlock Holmes, the very man they'd been discussing. "Sorry," he said as he released her arm, "but I couldn't help overhearing. This is your daughter, yes? Elizabeth?"

Lizzie nodded and grinned up at him while Molly continued to gape like a prize codfish. "Yeah, I'm Lizzie, are you Mr. Holmes? You look just the way Mummy says when she talks about you to my Aunt Mary!" Turning back to her mother, she said in a loud whisper, "He's even wearing the scarf, Mummy! The blue one you like so much!"

It was probably impossible for Molly to get any redder, but at the rate her heart was pumping blood through her system, it might actually start leaking through her pores at any moment. She'd never felt so embarrassed in all her life!

Sherlock was smirking a bit, but his smile turned rather sweet as he joined them by crouching down to Lizzie-height. "Yes, I'm Mr. Holmes, but you can call me Sherlock. Nice to meet you, Lizzie Hooper." He solemnly shook her hand. Leaning forward a bit, he made a show of glancing around the empty hall before looking back at her. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Lizzie nodded eagerly, then glanced over at her mother and bit her lip. "Only if I can tell Mummy, I'm not s'posed to keep secrets from my Mum."

He hummed in agreement. "Yes, neither am I. But since Mummy's right here, she'll be in on the secret anyway, so that's sorted."

"What's the secret?" Lizzie whispered, her eyes wide and dancing with excitement. Molly felt she really ought to butt in, but since she was right there and Sherlock surely wouldn't say anything cutting or inappropriate to a small child, she kept her peace. But if he said one thing to upset her Lizzie, he'd find out exactly how fierce she could be!

"When your Mummy comes over to help me with my experiments, it actually is a date, only I've never told her so," he said, still in a stage whisper. He let his left eyelid flicker shut in a quick, cheeky wink. "But now that I know you wouldn't mind if she got married some day, do you think it would be all right if I asked her on a proper date? And then maybe the three of us could go and get some ice cream sometime?"

Lizzie jumped up and down and squealed, clapping her little hands together excitedly. "Can we Mummy? Can we?"

Molly felt as if she'd been stricken dumb; every time she tried to open her mouth to say something - anything! - nothing came out. Finally she managed a very squeaky, questioning, "O-okay?"

Lizzie tackle-hugged her, nearly knocking the two of them to the floor. "Oh, thank you, Mummy! Thank you!" Then, remembering her manners, she let go her strangehold on her mother's neck and looked over at Sherlock. "Yes, please, I like ice cream. But not from Charlie's, they don't use the right kind of milk and it makes my tummy hurt. So we has to go Lemony's instead."

"Lactose intolerance, it does rather limit your choices," Sherlock said with what sounded like true sympathy. "All right, then, Lemony's it is. But only after you Mum and I have our first proper date, in case something goes wrong and she decides she doesn't want to go out with me again, does that sound fair?"

Lizzie pouted while the two grown-ups rose to their feet. "But then I don't get my ice cream," she pointed out.

Sherlock grinned. "Fair enough. How about this? We'll all go for ice cream right now, before Mummy's shift starts, and then I'll take her on a date tomorrow night - Mary already said she could babysit, I took the liberty of asking her a few minutes ago - and if all goes well, we'll celebrate with ice cream again on Saturday."

"Wait, don't I get a say in any of this?" Molly demanded, finally finding her tongue. Yes, she'd already agreed to the date - hadn't she? - but this two-way conversation definitely required input from her. "And what do you mean, you already asked Mary to babysit? How do you know her?"

"You've talked about her a number of times when we've been in the lab together," Sherlock replied with a quick eye-roll that she hoped Lizzie didn't see; her daughter was very quick to emulate actions taken by people she admired, and it was clear she very much admired 'Mr. Holmes'! "Since I just happened to be outside when she was on her way to the tube station after dropping Miss Elizabeth off," he nodded at Lizzie, who grinned back up at him, "I introduced myself and asked her if she'd mind babysitting and the rest you know."

Later Molly would learn that it wasn't quite as 'easy-peasy' as he made it out to be: he'd actually orchestrated the entire thing, loitering out of sight while Molly and Mary chatted, making sure to wait until she and Lizzie had entered the building before approaching Mary, and then insisting she contact DI Lestrade to verify he was who he claimed to be before badgering her into babysitting in spite of the fact that she had a date of her own that night.

But that was later. And much later than that - after many successful dates, a few disagreements, an almost-breakup and more than a few visits to Lemony's - Molly found herself actually accepting a proposal from the man she'd been silently in love with since the moment she'd first laid eyes on him.

The fact that Lizzie adored him and Mary fell for his just-a-friend-and-flatmate-after all, John Watson, made accepting the proposal that much easier.


	28. It Happened One (Drunken) Night

_darthsydious said: 'last night was a haze for both of us and somehow we woke up hungover in a bed that isn't either of ours and also neither of us recognize this apartment we should probably get out of here before someone calls the cops on us' au!_

 _A/N: Finishing this up just in time for Day 5 of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2016: Non-Canon/Headcanon Uni!lock. Rated M for smutty times._

* * *

She really needed to stop letting Meena goad her into drinking so much at these parties. She hated waking up with a hangover, she hated having to kick whoever it was she'd slept with out of the bed and back to their own dorm, and most of all, she hated not remembering any of the sex. Of course, considering some of the assholes she'd slept with, that probably wasn't a bad thing to not remember. "More like it probably IS a bad thing to remember," she mumbled to herself as she rolled onto her back and pushed her hair out of her face. God, it wasn't even full daylight yet!

"Christ, Molly, shut up and go back to sleep."

She froze in the act of sitting up, turning her head to see if (she really, really hoped) her ears were deceiving her.

Nope, no such luck. It actually was Sherlock Holmes lying sprawled next to her in bed, his bare back exposed to her view and the rest of him covered by the duvet. Molly felt her heart plummet. She'd broken her cardinal rule about hook-ups: she'd slept with a friend. Oh God, this was going to ruin everything: it had taken ages for her and Sherlock to go from casual classmates to actual friends and throwing sex into the mix? With a man who'd scoffed that love was a chemical defect? A man she'd been trying to convince herself she hadn't fallen in love with?

No, this wasn't going to end well. The best she could hope for was to convince him it didn't mean anything to her, and try to pretend it never happened.

With that in mind, she tried to keep her tone casual as she nudged his shoulder. "Sherlock, you should get back to your own room." She tugged at the covers, pulling them down to expose his (really rather fit) upper torso. She forced a small laugh as she added, "Meena will be back soon and I'd rather not have to listen to her teasing us about this."

He cracked open one eye and scowled at her. "Really, Molly? Morning after regrets? Disappointing, I thought you actually wanted something more from me than just a good shag."

Molly's mouth opened and shut a few times as she tried to process what he was saying. Which couldn't possibly be what she thought (hoped) he was saying. As she did so, her eyes fell upon the duvet she still held bunched in both hands, and she blanched. "Sherlock, please tell me this is your room?"

He sat up, glanced around, then looked back at her. "Nope," he said, popping the p in an obnoxious manner. "Judging by your reaction, it's not yours, either." He grinned. "Looks like we did the nasty in some strangers bed last night. Not only a stranger, but an off-campus stranger." He made a sweeping motion with one hand. "This is clearly _not_ a dorm room."

Molly looked around, wide-eyed. "Holy shit," she whispered as she took in the details she'd been too panicky and hung-over to notice before, like the ornate wallpaper, the expensive-looking drapes and plush carpet and (mahogany?) furniture. "Where are we? Why are we here?" Damn, she'd never taken enough to lose track of things to this scale before! She jumped to her feet, scrambling for her clothes while Sherlock stretched and yawned and watched her with an expression of amusement on his face that she did NOT appreciate.

"Get dressed," she snapped. "We have to get out of here before someone calls the police on us!" Picking up a pair of men's briefs from the floor, she chucked them at him. He snagged them out of mid-air and shrugged, standing up in order to put them on. Molly took a moment to admire his bare ass, if not his exasperating sangfroid, then finished throwing on the rest of her clothes - blue jeans, Rolling Stones t-shirt, cheerful yellow sandals. She stuffed her bra into her pocket book, which she found under the bed (the bra, not the pocket book, that was sitting on the nightstand), and looked over to see if Sherlock was ready yet.

The insufferable git was just standing there, wearing only his dark grey pants, hands on his hips as he surveyed their surroundings through narrowed eyes. "Sherlock!" Molly hissed, looking uneasily at the window where the sun was starting to brighten things up. "We have to get out of here!"

"No, actually we don't," he said, turning to give her a dazzling smile. While she frowned at him in confusion, he hopped back up on the bed and crawled across it. As soon as he reached the side where she was still standing, he knelt up and pulled her into his arms for an extremely hot kiss. Molly felt her knees go a bit wobbly; if he kissed like that, what else had she missed in her alcoholic haze last night?

And why wasn't he worried about where they were?

"I recognize it now," he murmured against her mouth. He kissed his way to her neck, brushing back her hair, and she let out an inadvertent moan as she felt his teeth grazing her earlobe. Her hangover had gone into full retreat in the face of her rising lust, but she needed a few answers before succumbing to Sherlock's obvious desire to get her back into bed.

"So, where are we?" she asked, the question coming out a breathy moan as he transferred his mouth from her ear to her neck, licking a path downwards as he slid his hands over her ass, squeezing experimentally.

"My brother's flat. He's out of town for the next two weeks, so no one's going to be busting in on us or calling the police. And stop worrying about the fact that we're friends," he added, mouthing her collarbone. She'd moved her hands up to his shoulders at some point, and felt his sliding under her t-shirt to skim the warm flesh above the waistband of her jeans. "This isn't going to spoil anything unless you let it. I think we can make this work."

"How?" She let him slide her top up and over her head, watching as he tossed it over his shoulder to land on the floor on the other side of the bed. "Friends with benefits?" She might be able to do that. Maybe. Especially if he kept doing that to her breasts, ghosting his palms over the nipples until they stood firmly at attention.

"Nope." He popped the p again, then lowered his head and replaced his hands with his mouth, curling his tongue around first one nipple, then the other, while his hands moved down to her jeans and began undoing the button and zip. "I'm willing to try the boyfriend/girlfriend thing with you," he said in between suckling kisses that had her digging her fingers into his shoulders and shivering. "Never done that before, should be interesting." He peered up at her, grinning. "Plus there's the fact that I'm in love with you."

Molly's mind threatened to shut down, and she once again found herself staring at him, _gaping_ at him, utterly speechless. When she finally found her voice, all she could do was squeak out, "What?"

He was working her jeans and knickers down her body and frowned up at her, pausing with his hands on her upper thighs. "You heard me. And I know you're in love with me, even though you've been trying to hide it. Don't do that, by the way. Hide things from me. You already know how good I am at deducing things." His smile returned, darkly knowing. "Like the fact that you're incredibly wet for me right now." He lowered his mouth until it hovered over her fully exposed - and yes, quite, quite wet - pussy. "But a good scientist always gathers empirical evidence."

Then his mouth made contact and Molly gave up trying to figure anything else for a while. Her head dropped back on her shoulders as she used her feet to pull her jeans and knickers free of her legs. His tongue was warm and slippery and teased moans from her throat as it delved between her folds. His hands were back on her ass, kneading the soft flesh, helping keep her upright as she felt herself building toward a speedy climax. She regretted even more the alcoholic haze of the night before; not having sex with him, of course, especially not after he'd dropped the L-word on her, but not remembering it. That she truly regretted.

He flicked his tongue over her clit and she gasped aloud, her legs shaking with the effort to keep her upright, her knees against the mattress and her breath heaving in her chest. He flicked the swollen nub again, and a third time, then sucked it into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth and Molly let out a strangled cry of release as her orgasm rushed over her.

When she came back to herself she was no longer standing, but was lying on the bed with her head on Sherlock's chest and his arms around her. He was stroking her hair and kissing her temple and tempted as she was to just lie there and fall back asleep now that she knew they weren't in imminent danger of arrest, there were a few things she needed to take care of first.

Such as, the lovely erection she felt burning against her mid-section. And there were some words she needed to say as well. "I, um, I guess you already know - that is, of course you already know because you already told me you know, but um, Sherlock...I love you too."

He kissed her, tugging her so that she lay atop him, his erection trapped between their bodies. "Still, it's nice to have my deduction confirmed," he said. Reaching under his pillow, he rummaged around for a bit, then brought his hand out, holding a foil packet between two fingers. "Care to do the honors?"

She knelt up, straddling his lean form, admiring the view as she hadn't had to opportunity to before. He was pale, like an elegant marble statue, with only a few sparse ginger hairs on his torso. Even the thatch between his legs was the same ginger color, and she made a mental note to ask if he dyed his hair for some reason. Not now, of course; no matter how socially awkward she could be at times, even she knew a mood-killing question when it popped into her head. All she did was lean down and kiss the red tip of his cock, sucking lightly at it and feeling a surge of satisfaction at his sharp intake of breath, the way his hips gave an involuntary jolt, and the salty taste of him.

"Or, ungh, yeah, that's good too," Sherlock said, sounding rather hoarse. Molly smiled at him as she knelt back up, enjoying the sight of his blue-green eyes gone dark with desire. She carefully tore open the packet and rolled the condom onto his (nicely thick) length, then raised herself up and grasped it at the base. His half-open mouth and panting breaths were too tempting to resist; she leaned forward and kissed him at the same time she lowered her body onto his cock, sucking hard on his tongue as a preview of things to come.

"Fuck," Sherlock gasped as she pulled her mouth away from his and sat up straight, giving him a full view of her body. He reached up and palmed her breasts as she began moving, raising and lowering herself in a slow rhythm as she got used to the fullness stretching her from the inside. His hips were moving as well, and after a few seconds they were fully synced.

"Need you closer," Sherlock grunted as their movements sped up. His hands moved to her hips and Molly obligingly leaned down again. He started the kiss this time, sucking her lower lip between his teeth and biting down gently. She grazed his chest with just the tips of her breasts and he groaned and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer as their kisses deepened and became more urgent.

The new angle did wonders; Molly felt herself closing in on another orgasm and panted against Sherlock's mouth as their pace increased. His hands slipped down to once again hold tight to her ass, squeezing it and sliding his fingers into the crease between. When she felt a fingertip slip into her rear opening she couldn't stop herself from crying out; pleasure shuddered through her body, bringing spots dancing before her eyes, and she was vaguely aware of Sherlock swiftly following her to completion. The pulse of his cock inside her was unmistakable, and brought on a set of post-orgasm shockwaves that sent her pulse skyrocketing again.

Afterwards, when they lay contentedly basking in the afterglow, Sherlock said it again, the words she'd never expected to hear from him. "I love you. I know you're about ten seconds away from questioning it, so I thought I'd save you the trouble. I'll say it again when we're not having sex, which incidentally I hope we'll be having rather a lot of from now on."

"I love you, too, Sherlock." Molly gave a contented sigh and snuggled closer, resting her head on his chest and loving the feel of his arms around her and his heartbeat beneath her ear. Some devil prompted her to add, "But maybe next time we shouldn't have sex in your brother's flat?"

"Yes, I'd prefer it if you didn't, Miss Hooper."

Molly gasped and sat up, automatically pulling the sheet up to cover her chest at the sound of that unexpected voice from the bedroom door. Sherlock, however, remained lounging and uncaring of his nudity. Eyes still shut he replied, "Yes, Mykey, won't happen again." His smirk, however, told a different story.

If Mycroft Holmes read the smirk the same way Molly did, he chose not to comment on it, instead calling over his shoulder, "I would appreciate it. Nice to finally meet you, Miss Hooper. There's tea and croissants on the way, do join me after you two have, ahem, tidied up a bit." Then he was gone, closing the door behind him while Molly just sat there, her face hot and mouth agape.

"Just ignore him," Sherlock mumbled, tugging her back down and kissing the tip of her nose. "He'll just eat all the chocolate ones himself." He'd cracked open one eye and smiled sleepily at her, then shut it again and nestled against her, clearly ready to fall asleep.

Five minutes later, grumbling and scowling, he was on his feet and getting dressed while Molly rushed into the en suite to clean up, the blistering commentary she'd given him still ringing in his ears.

As he heard the water start, he grinned to himself. Oh yes, he'd definitely found the right woman to fall in love with!


	29. Everything As Planned W Bonus Snogging

_penaltywaltz asked: Sherlolly (with bonus Warstan), "you brought your drunk friend to the library and then left them passed out in the play section. why would you do this."_

 _So this turned out to have a wee bit more Warstan than Sherlolly, but they're both featured, promise! Enjoy this unilock AU featuring Mary the Librarian. I had it in my drafts almost done for a while and decided to put on the finishing touches for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2016. Rated T, but very lightly applied._

* * *

"Look, I'm sorry, I really am, but he insisted, said it was important…"

Mary Morstan, librarian, stared in exasperation at the (really rather good-looking) man standing opposite her. "He's drunk," she pointed out unnecessarily. "And now he's passed out with his head on Arthur Miller and his arms wrapped around The Compleat Shakespeare."

"Yeah, I know, I just…I promise, if you just let him be for a bit, he'll wake up and probably have the case solved and we'll be out of your hair." He gave her a winning smile. "Which, by the way, is really quite lovely."

Mary raised an eyebrow; she'd have to give him points for trying to flirt with her when she was clearly annoyed. "You have one hour," she said. "You're just lucky it's almost closing time…and that I think you're cute," she added with a grin.

He gaped at her for a second, as if unable to believe that she was actually flirting back, then returned her grin with a wide smile. It turned his rather attractive features into something approaching gorgeous. Not in the same way his unconscious friend was gorgeous, with the cheekbones and the dark Byronic curls and the Elgin-marble complexion, but in a more down-to-earth way that appealed to her.

Five minutes later found them exchanging names - his was John Watson, and the git was Sherlock Holmes, some kind of consulting detective when he wasn't finishing up a graduate chemistry degree - and mobile numbers. "So, coffee at the place round the corner, tomorrow at five?" John confirmed. "I promise not to bring the git - he's my flatmate, by the way, in case you're wondering."

Mary nodded and started to speak, only to be interrupted by the sound of running feet. They both turned in surprise to see a young woman with oversized glasses perched on the edge of her nose and cinnamon-colored hair pulled back from her face in a long pony-tail. "Sorry!" she gasped out as she skidded to a stop in front of them, holding tightly to the strap of her faded khaki messenger bag . "I just…I'm late, I promised I'd meet him here after he won the drinking contest with the suspect, and I have the evidence he needed…is he in the plays section, John?"

John and Mary both nodded; the young woman mumbled something that sounded like an apology, then disappeared into the stacks where Sherlock Holmes presumably still slumbered. "Um, that was Molly, Molly Hooper, she's at uni with Sherlock and helps us with cases - I did mention that he's also a consulting detective, right? Assists some of the detectives at NSY when they're stumped. It's how we ended up flatmates, actually; I was called in on a case involving exotic poisons, that's my specialty, I suppose I should have mentioned I'm a doctor…"

Some very peculiar sounds from the stacks interrupted his nervous rambling; he and Mary both started forward to investigate, and he found himself admiring her calm acceptance of the bizarre way her evening had turned out. Well, after she'd whisper-shouted the riot act at him after stumbling over Sherlock asleep on the floor.

When they reached the section where they'd left the younger man, he was no longer asleep; point of fact, he was wide awake enough to be snogging Molly. John gaped at the sight; was this the same Sherlock Holmes who'd sneeringly declared sentiment a chemical defect? Who'd once disparagingly told Molly her lips were too small without lipstick?

"Shut up John," Sherlock muttered as he and Molly broke apart. Molly was blushing and Sherlock looked rather smug.

"I didn't say anything," John protested.

"No, but your thoughts were loud enough to wake the dead. Yes, I was kissing Molly. No," he added, glancing at the woman in question, "it wasn't just because I'm drunk - which my refreshing little nap took care of, I'm fairly sober now, thank you very much."

"Then why did you kiss me?" Molly asked quietly.

Sherlock grinned at her and laid his arm over her shoulder. "Because I wanted to. And I suspect I'll keep wanting to in future, if you don't mind."

She blushed and said something that sounded very much like 'of course I don't mind' but John and Mary couldn't swear on it. Sherlock jumped to his feet, helping Molly up. Then he deftly returned the two volumes he'd plucked off the shelves to their proper places before rubbing his hands together briskly.

"Right, then. John, since you're clearly more interested in taking our helpful librarian out for coffee than you are in joining me at the Met, I'll say good-night. Molly, you don't mind accompanying me, do you? No? Good, that's sorted then." He gave Mary a sardonic grin. "He's a good man, Ms. Morstan. Don't let your clandestine work for my dear older brother stop you from pursuing a relationship with John; he's more than ready to settle down and start raising a family, but I doubt that a secret past would be the right way to start things off, don't you agree?"

His smirk widened as the other three gaped at him, although Mary was quick to cover her shock with a cool mask of indifference. Sherlock kissed Molly again, quite enjoying himself and how this evening had turned out. Getting pissed at that pub had been a bit of a nuisance, but in the end Molly had got the evidence they needed, John had got him out of the pub safely, and at the same time had finally met - and been suitably impressed by - Mary Morstan, mild-mannered librarian and one of Mycroft's top operatives.

Everything had gone exactly as he'd planned - well, except for the kissing Molly part. That just sort of…happened. He never could handle his alcohol, it was true, but it was even more true - truer? - that he'd wanted to kiss her for quite some time now.

And now he had. All in all, a very, very satisfactory evening indeed!


	30. Shirtless in Scarborough

_poopavenger said: Thank you so much for doing prompts! I love your fics to bits. 3 Here's one from the Sherlolly AU lists that I would love to read: "I accidentally spilled hydrochloric acid on you so you really need to use the emergency shower and omg, if i knew you looked that good shirtless and wet i would have spilled it on you much earlier in the semester" Thank you! :)_

 _A/N: Uni!lock obviously, and apologies for the long delay in getting to this prompt! For the purpose of my love of alliteration and an attempt to sound like a movie title, Molly and Sherlock are attending the University of Hull, Scarborough Campus, which boasts classes in Chemistry (Forensic and Analytical Science) and Criminology with Forensic Science, according to their website._

 _Also this is Rated M. Because of COURSE they end up banging...duh!_

* * *

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Shit! Quick, take it off!"

Molly Hooper watched in horror as her lab partner, William Holmes, tugged his grey tee-shirt over his head before flinging it to the floor. He glared at her as she hurried for the sodium bicarbonate to keep the hydrochloric acid she'd accidentally spilled on him from burning him any more than it already had.

As she hurriedly cleaned him up, she couldn't help but notice how very, very fit he was underneath the baggy tee-shirts and hoodies he normally wore. She'd assumed he was just skinny and self-conscious about it, the way she was a bit pudgy and plain and self-conscious about it, but no, he'd been hiding a really gorgeous body from her all term. Well, not from her specifically, of course; they were just lab partners, barely even friends, not like his best mate Victor Trevor.

She gave an inward sigh at the thought that 'best mate' probably actually meant 'boyfriend' but it wasn't something she would ever ask William. Mostly because it was none of her business but also because she doubted he'd answer her. He avoided answering even the most casual questions about himself no matter who asked them.

"Never mind that, Hooper," he snapped at her as she tried to find the right bottle. "I'll just use the emergency shower."

"Right, of course!" She squeaked - ugh she hated it when her voice did that. She hurried over to the cramped shower stall at the back of the room, wedged between a utility sink and a large metal storage cabinet, quickly turning on the spray and holding the plastic curtain aside for him. She squeaked again as he casually pulled off the rest of his clothes, but couldn't resist sneaking a peak before ostentatiously turning her back on him. Mmm, the bottom half was just as fit as the top half...and it was a shame this was as much of a look at it as she was ever going to get.

She let out a bit of a sigh at the thought, this time outwardly; why were all the good-looking ones taken or…

"Hooper?"

She whipped her head around at the sound of him calling her name. "William? Are you all right? What do you need?"

He poked his head out of the shower, the smile on his face pure sin. "You." He jerked his head toward the spray invitingly. "Unless I'm mistaken and you didn't spill that hydrochloric acid on me because you were staring at me and tripped over your own feet?"

Molly's cheeks heated in a blush. "I wasn't...that is, I didn't mean to…"

His grin deepened, and he very deliberately opened the curtain so she could see his very fit, very wet body. All of it, head to toe. "I know you didn't do it on purpose, but I have to say, it's given me a really good excuse to get naked in front of you. Victor's been prodding me to ask you out for ages, but I'm not very good at that sort of thing." He shrugged. "As you can tell. But I am very good at knowing when someone fancies me just as much as I fancy them. And we could do the boring, ordinary thing - go on a date, get a bit drunk, snog in front of the telly until we finally work up the nerve to have sext - but I'd rather skip all that and get to the fun part. You game?"

She stared at him, having never received such a proposition in her life - and finding that she really, really liked it. She was usually the girl everyone overlooked in favor of prettier, more glamorous, well-built types. And if all William wanted from her was a shag in the shower...well, it was more than she'd ever expected to get from him at all.

Even though she could hear her mother's voice in her mind screaming at her about how she hadn't raised her to act like this, she ignored it in favor of undoing the buttons on her blouse, dropping it and the rest of her clothes to the floor while William watched with approving eyes. She refused to feel embarrassment; if she was going to do this, have sex in the (thankfully locked) chemistry lab with a near-stranger, then she was going to own it, and hang the consequences.

Well, most consequences. "I'm on the pill," she said as she shuffled closer, gnawing at her bottom lip without even realizing she was doing it. "And I don't usually, um…"

"Have sex on impulse?" He asked, reaching out and stroking one long, wet finger along her wrist. She nodded, ducking her head, then raising it when the finger moved to her chin. "Neither do I, believe it or not. So neither one of us should be harboring any boring STIs." His other hand was on her wrist, pulling her gently closer, until their bodies were only inches apart and she could feel the patter of the lukewarm water on her flesh. "May I?"

She nodded, and then he kissed her, pulling her around so that she was fully in the shower stall, his body crowded up against hers. That very nice erection she'd seen was now pressed between them, hot and lovely against her hip, and his tongue was doing even lovelier things in her mouth, and his lips were just as soft as she'd thought they would be. He slid his hands up to cup her face, deepening the kiss, and her eyes fluttered shut. Shower sex should have been awkward and uncomfortable, what with the water hitting them and the cold tile of the wall against her back, but it was just about the sexiest thing she'd ever done in her life.

William was certainly the sexiest bloke she'd ever been with; he knew what he was doing and she very much approved. He reached down to stroke her breasts, his mouth sliding over her cheek, her ear, her throat, and she tilted her head back and moaned a bit as he brushed his palms over her nipples. She'd been holding his shoulders, but moved her hands down his back to cup that perfect little arse she'd admired so many times, even under the baggy trousers he usually wore. He ground against her and made a little groan against her throat, then started sucking hard at the sensitive spot just above her pulse.

She made a noise something like 'Unggghhhhhahhh' and wrapped one leg around his thighs. He responded by grabbing that leg and hoisting it higher, then reaching between her legs and stroking her with two fingers, easily slipping them both inside her. She was so wired by now that she nearly came then and there, but fortunately managed to keep herself in check. Barely.

It was a different story when he suddenly curled his fingers in a 'come hither' gesture while rubbing the pad of his thumb over her clit; she came so suddenly her knees buckled, her vision sparkled and she nearly slammed her head against the tile wall as she wailed out her completion. Luckily he was still holding her up or she'd have collapsed to the tile floor.

"Guess you liked that," he purred in her ear once she'd recovered her senses enough to do more than just gasp for breath. He wiggled his fingers and aftershocks shot up her spine, causing her to shiver and clamp down with her interior muscles around the very talented digits still inside her body.

Instead of replying verbally, she reached between them and gave his erection a firm squeeze. It was his turn to make little gurgling sounds as she slid her hand up and down his water-slicked shaft, making sure to thumb the head in order to add some pre-cum to the mix. "Let's see how long it takes you to get all wobbly-kneed, shall we?" she said, doing her best to approximate his husky purr as she nipped at his earlobe.

"Long enough to bring you with me," he said with a growl, pulling his fingers out of her body and covering her hand with his. Together they guided him inside her; although the water was starting to wash her natural lubrication away, she was so slick from coming that he slid right into her. She moaned and bit his ear; he swore and bucked against her, then grabbed her other leg and lifted her up so that she was supported between the wall and his body.

Molly held tightly to his shoulders as he began a hard rhythm that felt utterly delicious; she crossed her ankles and, unbelievably, felt the beginnings of a tingle that told her she was heading for a second orgasm. With a little gasp she stared at William; no one had ever managed to get her off twice in a single encounter, ever. "Oh, God, William," she panted as the tingle grew and spread.

"Call me Sherlock," he panted right back to her, his burning gaze pinning her in place just as surely as his furiously pumping hips. "Like it...better," he grunted. "Middle name."

"Sherlock," she moaned, and he lunged forward and kissed her, a sloppy kiss, all teeth and tongues as she dug her fingernails into his shoulders.

Her orgasm flowed over her just as the spray turned from lukewarm to cold, but the sudden change in temperature didn't keep William - Sherlock - from chasing his own completion. With a heavy groan and string of curse words that would make Molly blush under any other circumstances, he came, pulsing deep inside her as her own orgasm finally ebbed.

He turned off the water before easing her back to her feet, pulling her close for another kiss, this one far gentler than any of the others they'd shared. "That," he said, leaning his forehead against hers as the kiss ended, "was amazing."

"Mmm," she agreed, reaching up to toy with the wet curls plastered against his head. "It sure was."

"Can't wait till we do it again," he said, and she blinked at him in surprise, having expected this encounter to be a one-off. He grinned, correctly interpreting her expression. "Hooper - Molly - I don't do casual sex anymore. So unless that's what you're looking for, I intend to keep on doing this like this with you. And I suppose we'll have to do the usual boring dating stuff as well, cinema and dinner and whatever else people do." He pulled a face, then turned and reached for one of the towels stacked in the storage cupboard, handing it to her before grabbing one for himself. "I should warn you, though, I'm a crap boyfriend. Sometimes I don't talk for days and play the violin at all hours of the night when I'm in a mood. Also I'm not very diplomatic, as you might have noticed in class, so if I say something Not Good, don't hesitate to tell me, okay?"

"O-okay," she replied, somewhat dazed by his rapid-fire words. She felt a bit dizzy; was he actually saying he wanted to be her boyfriend?

"Yes, I'm actually saying I want to be your boyfriend," he said, as if reading her mind. He wrapped his towel around his slim hips and cupped her face in his hands. "If you want me, you can have me."

"Um, yes?" she said, making it sound more like a question than a statement. "I mean, yes, I'd like that," she tried, this time happier with the results. She smiled and tiptoed up to kiss him. "I'd like that a lot...Sherlock."

The smile he gave her lit up his angular features like the sun, and Molly knew that, no matter how rubbish a boyfriend he'd warned he would be, at least with him things would never, ever be boring.


	31. The Drunk In The Nighttime

_luminescentglow said: 'I met you last night when you were drunkenly patting my dog in my backyard at 3 in the morning and when i asked you what the hell you were doing you slurred something about dogs being great and then you threw up on my feet and then fifteen minutes later you were passed out on my couch so that's why you're here right now also what the fuck is your name and why were you patting a dog in a stranger's backyard in the middle of the night' au_

 _A/N: Rated a light T. Thanks to everyone who still reads and reviews these stories, I appreciate it so much!_

* * *

He opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling and announced, "This isn't my flat." Then he winced and closed his eyes again against the stabbing pain lancing through his brain. His mouth was foul, his body ached, and he was lying on someone's sofa. A lumpy sofa far too short for his lanky form.

"Well good morning, sunshine!" a cheerful (ugh, far too cheerful) female voice called out. "Finally awake, are you? Well rested, or do you think you could use this?"

The voice (young, about his age, not from London originally but he was far too hungover to deduce her origins, and, oh yes, a complete stranger) came closer, and he felt her presence near his fiercely aching head. He cracked open one eye, carefully turning said aching head to the side, and saw a pair of hands with short, garishly painted fingernails - and, more importantly, with a bottle of paracetemol in one and water in the other. "Oh thank God," he rasped, leaning up on one elbow. He reached out and was handed two pills and the already-opened bottle of water.

His hostess politely waited until he'd gulped down the medication and at least half of the half-liter bottle before saying anything else. "So. I'm Molly Hooper, in case you were wondering, and this is my flat, and that's my dog sitting on your legs."

He craned his head around and saw that there was indeed a medium-sized dog of indeterminate breed curled up on his legs; upon seeing Sherlock's face, the reddish-gold-furred canine stood up, feathered tail wagging madly, and started to move up with the clear intention of licking his former couch-mate's face.

"Oi, none of that!" the girl - Molly Hooper - said sharply. "Down, boy!" She pointed sternly at the floor and the dog, with a disappointed whine, obediently jumped off of Sherlock's legs.

He returned his attention to the dog's owner, flicking his eyes over her and approving of what he saw in spite of his current inability to deduce much about her aside from the fact that she was actually about two years younger than him, living on her own in a house inherited from her deceased parents, and just about to enter medical school. Oh, and of course she was a bit too trusting for her own good.

She blinked and stared at him, and he realized he'd just said all that aloud. "O-okay," she said slowly, once again blinking those large, brown eyes at him. Her hair was a pleasant shade of cinnamon, pulled back into a simple pony-tail, and hung down nearly to the small of her back. She was wearing a pair of comfortable-looking denim shorts and an oversized rugby shirt, and her toes were just as brightly colored as her fingernails. "So, um, I think I get the too-trusting bit, since I clearly let you stay overnight on my sofa when we don't even know each other's names - and what's yours, by the way?"

"Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes," he replied, risking losing the newly-acquired contents of his stomach by swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa and assuming a sitting position. His queasiness surged then ebbed as he folded his legs up and hugged them to his chest. "And as for my other deductions…"

"Never mind, Sherlock," she said, waving away his attempts to explain. "You can tell me about that after you explain why you were in my yard last night, petting Toby when I'd let him out for a wee." He winced and she giggled, her dog making a soft bark at the sound of his name, his tail thumping enthusiastically against the table leg. Molly leaned down to scratch him between the ears. "I have to say, it was rather entertaining to hear you go on and on about how great dogs were and how lucky I was to have such a good boy in my life." Her expression turned impish. "And of course, how could I _not_ let you pass out on my sofa after you very sincerely promised that you were a good boy too, and that I could have you if I wanted?"

Sherlock paled and leaned his head back, covering his eyes with a groan. He was definitely going to get Victor for this - the bastard had said he was taking Sherlock back to his parent's house!

"I threw up on your feet," he mumbled as the memories starting filtering through the obscuring layers of his hangover. "God, I'm never drinking vodka again. Sod Victor and his asinine ideas about having 'fun'!" He peeked at Molly through his fingers. "Um, sorry about the terrible pickup line. And the puking. And the...everything else."

"Nah, it's all right," she said with a shrug. She sat down on the edge of her coffee table. "If you'd been in any condition to actually try anything, I might have given it a go, but as it was you could barely stumble inside to the sofa. Oh, and I did try to see if I could get any info about you from your mobile, but I couldn't figure out your passcode." She picked up his phone from where it had been sat next to her and handed it to him.

Their fingers brushed as he accepted his mobile, and he was very interested to see a slight blush staining her cheeks. Considering how calm and in control and seemingly unaffected she'd been by this whole mess up until now, it was somewhat of a relief to see that she actually might find him attractive after all. Because he was certainly finding her very attractive. "I go to UCL," he blurted out. "Chemistry."

"King's College. Studying medicine, as you already know - and how did you know?" she asked curiously. "I think I'm ready to hear how you made all those brilliant deductions about me - and got them right - just by looking round my flat when you woke up."

He grinned, then settled back to explain all the subtle clues that he'd picked up about her. He had a feeling Molly wasn't going to be one of the ones who called him a freak for his deductive abilities, and so it proved. "That was amazing," she said frankly.

"Did I get anything wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, actually, you got it all spot on. Is there anything you can't deduce about my life?"

He tilted his not-throbbing-as-much-as-it-had-been head to one side. "Only two things," he pronounced after a moment's serious consideration.

"And that would be…?"

"Why you don't have a boyfriend, and what mix of breeds Toby is."

She blushed a bit more, her bottom lip nipped between her teeth as she looked away from him. "Um, university is a huge time-suck and usually the blokes I fancy are either taken or not interested. As for the more important question...I have a proposition for you."

He raised an eyebrow at her choice of words, and the blush spread down her throat as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "Coffee!" she said in a rush. "There's a great coffee house down the street. You can go splash some water on your face, use the spare toothbrush in the cubby under the sink, and we could go there. We'll take Toby, he needs to be walked anyway, and if you still can't figure it out after getting some caffeine into your system, I'll tell you. Deal?"

"Deal." He rose cautiously to his feet and threaded his way to the bathroom, grinning like an idiot the entire time. His weekend - and hopefully longer than that - was looking up. Perhaps he wouldn't read Victor the riot act after all

Humming a bit, he closed the bathroom door behind him.

He couldn't remember when he'd looked forward to coffee more.


	32. A Study In Oils

_benedicted-cumberbatched had some prompts she needed people to help her out with. This one is for #7: a model and their painter - sherlolly (req. by fairlyfunctioning on tumblr)_

 _A/N: I gave Sherlock's father the title of Earl of Sussex just because I wanted to call him that. Alas, it has nothing to do with anything remotely resembling real British peerage circa 1910. Cause I'm a lazy researcher. But I'm a grateful writer - thank you for reading and reviewing, as always!_

* * *

"Please, Sir William, if you don't stand still the only thing I'll be able to place on your portrait is an abstract swirl of colours!"

The youngest son of the Earl of Sussex cocked an eyebrow at the young woman his family had employed to paint portraits of himself and his elder brother, Mycroft. "And yet," he mused, "such a portrait would certainly provoke a certain amount of..."

"Disapprobation," Miss Molly Hooper promptly replied, although he could see the slightest hint of a dimple at the corner of her mouth.

"Spirited discussion," he corrected her, crooking his own mouth in a wry grin. "Not unlike the model himself." He gave a slight, self-mocking bow before straightening up with an exaggerated moue of pain. He placed a hand to the small of his back and stretched, noticing with quiet self-satisfaction how the portrait artist's eyes tracked the arch of his back with something very different to professional appreciation.

"Although that may be your goal, I have been engaged by your parents to provide an oil painting that they can hang in the family gallery," she reminded him. A mild rebuke, but certainly the most he'd managed to goad out of her during a month of sittings and sketching, studies of his hands and face...endless puttering in his opinion, at least at first. Beneath her quiet demeanor he sensed quite a passionate soul - no, not sensed, he chastised himself as he folded his hands in front of him and raised his chin as instructed by the woman in question. He didn't _sense_ things about people, he _deduced_ things about them.

And what he'd deduced about Miss Molly Hooper had been rather fascinating, much to his surprise. Yes, he'd learned the usual, boring things about her - only child, father deceased, mother remarried and living on the Continent, one bad-tempered cat currently being watched by a friend in London - but he'd also discovered her carefully hidden - and rather attractively morbid - sense of humour, her fascination with human anatomy and physiology (including the inner workings which most artists were not required to learn), her rather engaging habit of chewing on her lower lip when she was concentrating...in short, as his friend John Watson had (he thought) jestingly declared, it seemed he'd fallen rather distractingly in love with her.

Annoying, that, but although at first he'd confidently believed that the more he discovered about her the less enamored he'd become, he'd quickly discovered just how wrong he could be. He rarely missed anything, but when he did, it was generally on the spectacular side.

Out of desperation he'd told himself that his parents would never approve a match with a penniless itinerant portraitist far below his class, younger son or not, especially not one two years his senior.

Those arguments, however, were nullified within moments of their formulations: his parents were entirely unpretentious and would approve any match for their sons; they quite liked Miss Hooper, who joined them at every meal and was treated as a guest rather than a (temporary) employee...and she was actually two years younger than himself, twenty-four rather than the near thirty years she claimed. He understood her reasons for doing so: it was often necessary for a person who depended, as she did, on patronage and recommendations for her living, to project an appearance of sober maturity. Were her true age revealed until she'd thoroughly established herself, she'd likely find commissions thin on the ground.

Her current employment by his family would be the sort of work to assure her future, should she impress him parents with her skill. The official family portraits of himself and Mycroft (would she take a bribe to paint an additional four stone' weight on his annoying sibling's portrait - no, she was regretfully honest in most regards) would undoubtedly grace the walls of the gallery, as he'd already noted her exceptional skill. She'd not only brought a portfolio of her other works and a sheaf of introductions and endorsements from grateful past clients, but had done a series of rough sketches and even a completed head-and-shoulders portrait of his mother in order to prove her skills.

Even Mycroft had had to concede that her work was more than worthy once he'd viewed the small oil painting. Miss Hooper's work had perfectly captured their mother's quiet grace and the charming twinkle in her eyes that made one feel as if she knew some joke that left her constantly on the verge of laughter.

And now she was working on his portrait, soon to shift to Mycroft's, thus limiting the time they would be able to spend together. The thought was particularly unbearable for a man who had once declared that being alone kept him strong. However, the strong and steady friendship of John Watson and the landlady for their shared apartments in London - his preferred place of residence, not the country manor where he was spending the summer - had taught him that the sentiment he'd once spurned had more than proven the fallacy in his previous beliefs.

If friendship and companionship had improved his life so dramatically, what of love?

"What of - what?"

Miss Hooper's voice interrupted his (he'd thought) internal musings. "Pardon?" he asked, hoping that he hadn't done what he now suspected he had done.

"You said, 'what of love'," Miss Hooper replied, a small blush on her cheeks. In all the time they'd spent together, he'd only been able to cause her to blush out of vexation; it was entrancing to see the warmth infusing her features because of some - dare he hoped? - softer emotion.

"I did," he replied, relaxing from the stiff pose he'd maintained for - how long? No matter; he brushed aside the question as irrelevant, stepping off the low dais upon which he'd been standing and walking slowly over to the stool she occupied in front of her easel. "Miss Hooper, what are your feelings on love?"

Her brown eyes were very wide as she regarded him, the knuckles of her hands quite white where she clutched her brush. "Um, I don't...might I inquire as to what...what are you..."

He couldn't stand it; she was utterly adorable when she stammered like this, and upon impulse he reached out and pulled her to her feet. "Love," he murmured as she tilted her head back to stare up at him. The pulse was throbbing in her throat, and his own heart was pounding a synchronous rhythm. "Miss Hooper, I have love on my mind - and not, as you would be right to suspect, of a simply temporary nature; I do not wish for an assignation to while away the boredom of the summer. No, I would never waste either of our time on such frivolous pursuits."

"Then what do you want, Sir William?" she asked, somewhat breathlessly. But the dimple was showing again, and he felt the urge to press his lips to it.

An urge he sternly suppressed, not wanting to undermine his own argument. "Simply put, Miss Hooper, I would like to ask for your hand in marriage."

She let out a small gasp, then shook herself free of his hold. He allowed her to step back, watching as she rather shakily placed her brush and paints on her newly-vacated stool. "I'm not sure how to respond to that," she replied slowly, once she'd visibly brought herself under control. "I'm hardly the stuff of romantic fantasies, Sir William..."

"Please," he broke in with what he hoped was a winning smile, "call me Sherlock."

She hesitated, then gave a brief nod. "Sherlock," she said softly, and he felt his heart skip at the sound of his preferred name on her lips. "I suppose you've read my...interest...in you. My personal interest," she added, as if her words required further clarification. He nodded, impatient for her to continue, which she did after yet another hesitation. "And it's very flattering for you to make such an offer...but have you considered what hardships it might entail?"

"Hardships?" He raised a brow. "Marrying me might not be the easiest of choices, but I can assure you, my family..."

"Oh, I'm not worried about your family," she assured him, with another of those pretty blushes he was quickly becoming addicted to. "I feel I've come to know your family quite well - I've always been a very good judge of character - and I'm sure they would welcome me in spite of the difference in our classes. Even your brother," she added with another return of the dimple.

"Then what hardships concern you - oh!" he interrupted himself as he thought he caught onto her meaning. "You're worried about my work with the London police, my consulting detective work with Doctor Watson. If you require reassurances..."

She cut him off with a simple shake of her head, the cinnamon-brown braids she wore in a twist at the back of her neck swinging around at the movement. "I would never try to hold you back from doing something you love. The only question is, would you do the same for me?" At his uncomprehending look, she gestured toward the easel and her tools. "Will you expect me to give up my art, my profession? Because," she rushed on before he could answer, "I can tell you right now, Sir Wil - Sherlock - that will never happen. I have no objections to being a wife and, and a mother if that time comes, but I will under no circumstances allow anyone to tell me I can no longer earn a living by painting."

Sherlock knew his expression must reflect the horror he felt at such a thought, for Miss Hooper's face became blank, unreadable, and she bowed her head. "As I thought," she said quietly. "Very well, Sir William, under those circumstances..."

"You misunderstand me," he said, the words coming out of him in a veritable flood as he caught her hands in his and gazed down at her. "I was not troubled by the idea of your continuing your work, but rather by the idea that anyone might require you to give it up out of mere societal conventions. Hang societal conventions! I've never abided by them and neither should anyone - but especially not the woman I love and wish to make my wife. If you marry me, Molly Hooper, I can promise you, I will support your efforts. Even if we do have a child - and yes, I will admit that the idea has some appeal - and choose to bring him or her with you on extended commissions such as you are conducting for my family, I would never stand in your way. On that, you have my word."

"And what if I asked that you keep our child safe while I'm away? Would you give up your exciting lifestyle in order to change nappies and warm bottles?"

He waved a hand airily. "On those occasions I'm certain Mrs. Hudson would step in, or Mycroft would hire a nanny until your return if a case required my attention. We'll work it out, Molly - please say we will?"

The sparkle in her eyes must surely match that of his own as she smiled at him. "Then yes, Sherlock Holmes, I will marry you." She raised herself onto her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

The kiss they shared a month later at their wedding was just as tender, just as full of promise as they life they vowed to make for one another.

And so it inevitably was.


	33. Laundry List

_mistykins06 said: Oh this one just sounds like them: I'm in my underpants in a laundromat waiting for my clothes to get washed and your clothes are in the machine next to mine and i noticed that when you put your clothes in they were all covered in blood what the hell' au_

 _Rated T. Thanks for your patience, I know it's been a while since I updated this collection. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Um, excuse me, but...where are your clothes?"

"In the wash, obviously. Got acid on them, had to get them off right away, dashed down here to take care of it, not a mad rapist, your virtue is safe, now do go away and let me…"

Sherlock's rapid-fire stream of annoyed words died down as he turned to face the young woman who'd asked him the incredibly personal question that was none of her business. It wasn't so much her person that caught his attention as it was the bundle of clothes she was in the process of stuffing into a washer. The _bloody_ bundle of clothes.

"Medical student?"

The petite brunette who was holding said bloody clothes started a bit, then nodded, finally raising her eyes from the floor to meet his gaze. Not that he normally noticed such things, but they were big brown eyes that seemed to take up half her face. Her cheeks were pink, no doubt due to his current state of mostly-undress, and perfectly complemented her classic English Rose complexion. Her lips could use a touch of lipstick to plump them up a bit, but her upturned nose was very Puckish and appealing and he found himself wondering what her smile looked like.

"Good guess," she added when he remained silent after his question. "About me being a medical student. I mean, I suppose it could have just been a really heavy period, but...oh, sorry! That's not really something you want to hear, is it." She giggled nervously, and he decided her smile had been worth waiting for.

"Why not?" he asked with genuine interest, watching as she began stuffing coins into the slot. The university dorms were way behind on tech; even the public laundrettes used swipe-cards rather than coins these days. He stepped around the row of washers and leaned against the one set back-to-back with hers, deducing that it would be less awkward for them to talk when she wasn't distracted by trying to avert her eyes every few seconds from his body. Of course, he was used to people covertly studying him even when fully clothed so it didn't make any difference as far as he was concerned, but John would undoubtedly be proud of him for thinking of her comfort and not just his own for a change.

"Oh, well, you know, it's a girl thing, right? And most guys just don't want to know about it, unless it's 'thank God I got my period, we're all right' or something like that." She shrugged self-consciously.

"That's just ridiculous," Sherlock proclaimed. "It's perfectly natural, why shouldn't you talk about it? All this stupid secrecy and unnecessary segregation of the sexes when it comes to bodily functions...I actually had classmates when I was ten who'd never seen female genitalia, even ones with younger sisters, and all because their parents didn't think it was 'natural' for them to know about sexual dimorphism until they were older, when it's usually much too late. All the disinformation that gets bandied about - utterly ridiculous! And for God's sake, a woman's period is something most men have to deal with sooner or later, as fathers or husbands or boyfriends or whatever, so why act like it's something they're too fragile to handle?"

"Because they usually are, and because of the reasons you just gave," the young woman replied, her head bobbing in heated agreement with his diatribe. "It's ridiculous, you're right, there's nothing wrong about it, but women are taught to be ashamed of it and men are taught that it's 'women's stuff' like some of them won't ever be doctors. Honestly, I'm surprised more people don't still believe in the wandering womb with attitudes like that!"

"Sherlock Holmes," he said as she paused to catch her breath. He held out his hand in introduction.

She took it without hesitation. "Molly Hooper," she replied with another charming grin. "Pleased to meet you."

They were deep in a discussion of ancient and medieval medical beliefs, their clothes sloshing merrily away in their respective washers, when the sound of an opening door caught their attention, followed quickly by a loudly exclaimed, "Oh for fuck's sake, Sherlock! Where are your bloody trousers?"

"In the wash," he replied without looking.

"Besides, they're not _his_ 'bloody clothes'," Molly chirped up. "They're mine!"

She and Sherlock both dissolved into giggles while John looked on uncomprehendingly. "Sorry, what?" he asked once the giggles had died down.

"The fair young medical student you see before you managed to get blood on her clothes from a corpse that was still a bit too juicy to be cut into," Sherlock explained. "And I got acid on mine. And we were getting on perfectly well until you decided to blunder into our conversation." He turned back to Molly and pulled a comical face. "John here is my dorm-mate and self-appointed social interference-runner. Yes he's always this clueless but no, it's not usually about women."

"You said women weren't your area!" John sputtered, clearly speaking before thinking since he immediately turned a bright red.

"I said _girlfriends_ weren't my area," Sherlock corrected him blandly, before turning to give Molly a smouldering look. "At least, not until now. Meet me for lunch around one, Molly? The dining hall is having something half-way decent today if memory serves."

She pinkened and nodded. "Looking forward to it." Her innate politeness apparently prodded her, and she turned to John. "Would you care to join us?"

John smiled and nodded, ignoring Sherlock's vigorous throat-cutting motions that were meant to convey just how little his friend wanted him to accept the invitation. "Absolutely love to," he said, then gave a very theatrical start and smacked his forehead. "Oh, sorry, I forgot, meeting one of my professors around then. Maybe another time, I'd love to chat, maybe we have some classes together? I'm in medicine too."

"Yes, I'm sure she'll be fascinated to hear all about you," Sherlock said with a scowl. "Some other time," he added pointedly. "You should probably get ready for the meeting, shouldn't you? Or be off finding some other woman to practice your so-called charms on?"

"Now, Sherlock, don't be rude," Molly chastised him gently. "You'll have me all to yourself at lunch...oh, and, er, you will be wearing more clothes then, right?"

He ignored John's choked-off laughter as he replied cheekily, "Only if you want me to be." Then he waggled his eyebrows and she giggled and he very generously decided to forgive John for interrupting. Molly's giggle was one sound he doubted he'd ever get tired of hearing.

As it happened, he was much more appropriately dressed for their lunch-date, and for the study-date the next day.

It wasn't for another week that Molly got to see him in nothing but his underpants again - and this time, he was very appreciative of the fact that she was wearing very little as well.

And Mycroft had scoffed that caring wasn't an advantage!


	34. Comfy

_Writingwife83 said: Congrats on all those followers, lady. ;) Ok so this au may have been the first one I saw on the list, but it just screamed Sherlolly to me. I mean, how hysterical would this be?! XD... 'i'm an ikea employee and every day for the last week i've had to ask you to leave the store bc you keep coming in and sleeping in the beds seriously are you homeless or something i can call a shelter' au_

 _Rated T and very late, hope you enjoy!_

* * *

"Oh for the love of - this is ridiculous! Look, you, I've had to wake you up six nights in a row and straighten out the displays and you can't keep doing this! Are you homeless? Do you need me to call a shelter?"

Molly Hooper, uni student and part-time Ikea employee, glared down at the good-looking bloke blinking sleepily up at her from the Fjellse display bed he was currently resting on.

"Not homeless, just sleepless and besides, if I wanted to, it's obvious that I _could_ keep doing this," the good-looking (okay, _gorgeous_ ) stranger - about her age, dressed in jeans and a rumpled hoodie - muttered as he sat up.

"Excuse me?" Molly's glare turned icy. "What makes you think I'd let you get away with..."

"You haven't called security or reported me to management," he said, cutting her off as he swung his trainer-clad feet over the side of the bed. "Which means you either feel sorry for me - your offer to call a shelter was expressed out of sincere worry for my well-being, I could tell - or you're attracted to me." He caught her gaze and grinned cheekily at her outraged expression. "But as I already said, I'm not homeless. I'm a uni student just like you are, but with an unfortunate flat-mate whose snores could wake the dead."

"How did you know I - never mind," Molly interrupted herself irritably. "I suppose it's easy to figure out based on my age or something. But you can't keep flopping here; sooner or later someone else is bound to catch you and then you _will_ be in trouble."

He shrugged and stretched, giving Molly a very nice view of his arms and chest and the long, pale lines of his neck. Cheeky bastard was right about her finding him attractive, with those cat-like eyes and the cheekbones to die for and the gorgeous mop of dark curls atop his head. "It won't happen again, this was my last night. Mouth-breather is moving out, thank God."

Molly fought a surge of disappointment; in spite of her remonstrations, she really had looked forward to seeing him again after this. "Oh, well, that's good," she said unenthusiastically.

He hopped to his feet, towering over her as he hiked his knapsack up on one shoulder. "Liar," he said with a grin. "I knew I wasn't the only one of us who was attracted to the other."

Molly's mouth opened and closed a few time as she came to grips with what he'd just said. "You're a-attracted? To me?"

"Yup," he replied, popping the p obnoxiously. "Far more than I'm attracted to any of these beds. Although," he added musingly, "the Tyssedal model wasn't half bad, or at least the mattress wasn't. It's why I came back after the first night instead of just buying ear plugs like I'd originally planned." He gave her a brilliant smile. "Anyway, the name's Sherlock Holmes, and yours is Molly Hooper, or so says your name badge, and coffee?"

It took her a second to realize the last word was a request rather than a non sequitur. "Oh, um, yeah, my break is in…"

"Ten minutes," he finished for her with another flash of that cheeky grin. "Don't worry, I'm not a crazy stalker, I just asked your friend Meena when it was. She's arranged to have hers at the same time so you'll have an extra pair of eyes on me. See you at the cafe!"

He strolled away, whistling cheerily, while Molly continued to gape after him. This had to be the craziest encounter of her life; she shouldn't have agreed to coffee or anything else with a nutter like him, but if Meena, who had an excellent radar for losers, had told him her break time, then it was probably safe.

And besides, it was just coffee in the Ikea cafe, and he'd already said he wasn't planning to kip here anymore after tonight, so why not? "Take a chance, Hooper," she muttered to herself as she began straightening the bedding he'd disarrayed.

If she'd known the next disarrayed bedding she'd be tidying up after him would be her own after a night of blissful lovemaking...well, she'd have taken her break early!


	35. Call Out

_savetheworldbutloseyou said: (I know I already did one, but since you asked for variety I'd thought I'd drop another one in. This can replace the other one if you'd like.) ""i'm a prince/ss from a small country nobody's heard of and i'm in college pretending not to be royal and you're another student who's always calling me out on my bs" au, Sherlolly, any rating is fine. Thanks!_

 _A/N: So this took a long time for me to figure out, but I hope you like the result. Slightly tweaked the prompt. Rated K+. Loads of hugs and thank you's to everyone for reviewing, reading, etc. :)_

* * *

"Oh please, no one's pronunciation is that precise, that clear and exact, unless they've had training beyond even what the poshest of posh public schools provide."

The words were scoffing; one could practically hear the rattle of rolling eyeballs underscoring every syllable. The speaker, entirely unaware of being overheard, continued blithely on, mobile resting between shoulder and ear, hands busy flipping through an anatomy textbook. "And the clothes! Those artfully ripped denims, the scruffy trainers, the oversized jumpers...it's a front, I'm telling you! If my lab partner is from Northamptonshire, I'm a monkey's uncle!"

"I must admit, I'm not familiar with that particular idiom."

With a squawk of surprise, dropping the mobile and textbook both, the speaker spun round to face the intruder. "Eavesdropping is rude, didn't your royal etiquette tutors teach you that?"

"Of course. And they also taught me that talking about someone behind their back was rude. If you have something to say, please, by all means - say it to my face."

"Fine." That huff of annoyance also served to move disheveled strands of hair back into place. "If that's what you want, then fine. I think it's ridiculous to think you can get away with pretending to be 'just one of the people' when it's so obvious a blind banker could see the truth. You're no more from Northamptonshire than I am. In fact, you're not even from the UK, but most likely from some small boring German-speaking country. A Principality, most likely."

A slight, crooked smile met this accusation. "Guilty as charged. My parents didn't want me to turn out as, shall we say, overly impressed with myself as my older brother has become, so they sent me to school here when I was fifteen. I go home every summer and holiday, but when they asked if I wished to continue my university studies here, I agreed on the condition that I needn't reveal my real name or rank." Shyly, the royal-in-disguise added, "I didn't want people fawning over me because of my status. I just came here to learn. I was hoping no one would figure it out. I should have known if anyone could, it would be you, William."

"Sherlock," he interrupted, reaching down and stuffing the dropped mobile into his back pocket. "Call me Sherlock, only my professors and my parents call me William. But," he added as she began to nod, "if it's discretion you're after, I suppose I'd better keep calling you Molly instead of Princess Margaret."

She glanced pointedly at the pocket into which he'd slipped his mobile. "There's at least one other person who must know, or at least suspect, no?"

Sherlock shrugged. "John's never going to figure it out, I can guarantee that. I didn't tell him who I was talking about this time, and frankly," he added with a sudden, charming grin that utterly lit up his normally dour features, "he's heard me ranting about so many of the other students here that he pretty much tunes me out when I call him."

Molly responded to his grin with a wry smile of her own. "Well, I hope you'll not be ranting about me again, at least not about my elocution."

He gave her a considering look. "On one condition."

The look she gave him in return was wary, but she nodded. "Name it."

"Coffee. You and me. And while we're drinking, you tell me how a princess decided to study medicine instead of, I dunno, 18th century French poetry or something equally boring."

She laughed, nodding her head in agreement. "Very well, Sherlock. Coffee it is."

After retrieving his dropped textbook they set off together for the campus coffeeshop. If anyone had to discover the truth of her identity, Molly reflected, at least it had been the boy she'd been nursing a crush on since the beginning of the fall term - and who, although neither of them knew it at the time, would one day become her husband and royal consort.


	36. Counselor Trap

_anonymous asked: Hey there! A million thanks for finding my fic earlier (godparents)! I saw on AO3 that AU prompts are accepted, so here I am dropping a little plot bunny. Basically sibling related AUs will do, e.g. on alouettesque's list: "Oh so you're the camp counselor my little sibling keeps talking about", "Our little siblings are on rival sports teams and I've made it my life goal to cheer louder than you". Cheers!_

 _Going with the first prompt, sorry it's taken me so long. Enjoy this uni!lock (aged) Sherlolly ficlet._

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"Oh, so you're the one!" Molly blurted out without meaning to, then turned beet red in mortification. "Sorry, I didn't mean anything by that, it wasn't an insult, I just wasn't expecting, that is to say…you really are cu–uh, currently…here. At camp. And not…somewhere else," she finished lamely.

The Really Cute Counselor her younger sister Tabitha "Toby" Hooper had been gushing over all summer simply lifted an eyebrow as Molly floundered and eventually clamped her lips shut. After the silence had stretched out for almost ten excruciating seconds he finally spoke. "You must be Molly Hooper, the older sister Toby's always gushing about. The _smart, sophisticated college student_ who _has her act together_ and _knows what she wants to do with her life already_ and is _way too good for the likes of you, Curly Fu_ ," he said in a more-than-passable imitation of Toby's speech patterns when she was on a tear.

"She, um, didn't tell me you knew the nickname she'd given you," Molly said weakly. "She heard that the Chinese press had given that nickname to some actor and she insisted it fit you better but I just assumed she'd actually kept that to herself." _Shut up, Molly_ , she advised herself. _Stop making yourself look like an even bigger idiot than you already have. Why do gorgeous men always make you feel so awkward?_

Instead of laughing at her or making one of the staggeringly accurate deductions Toby insisted he did all the time, even when Mrs. Hudson and Head Counselor Lestrade told him to knock it off, he smiled. Not a mean smile and not a cold, fake smile (Toby said he could do those too…come to think of it, Toby said a LOT about Counselor Curly Fu, now that Molly thought about it)…she completely lost her train of thought at that smile, reaching out dazedly to take the hand he extended. "Sherlock Holmes, although I suppose you can call me Curly Fu if you'd like. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, it's just that…well, Toby's talked you up quite a bit and I was expecting someone a bit more intimidating, to be honest."

"Um, well, she also talked _you_ up quite a bit and I thought you would be, too. More intimidating. I mean, well, you are, actually, a bit, but not because you're…it's just that you're really gorgeous and fit and I have never ever in my life been able to talk to gorgeous, fit blokes and oh lord just bury me now," she groaned, trying to take her hand back so she could cover her face. Which was currently hot enough to bake an excellent Christmas pudding on.

"Good," Sherlock said, not letting go of her hand. "Because I've always been rubbish at talking to girls - women now, I suppose since I can actually talk to girls or I'd be the worst camp counselor ever, if I could only talk to the boys."

There was a hint of pink in his cheeks, Molly noted when she dared to raise her eyes back to his face, and his speech had become almost as flustered as his own. That gave her the confidence to meet his smile with one of her own. "Maybe we should start over?" she suggested tentatively.

His grip on her hand tightened before he pulled it away. "Excellent idea." Taking a deep breath, he said, "Hi, I'm Sherlock Holmes, one of the counselors here at Camp Sherwood. You must be Molly Hooper, Toby's sister. Very pleased to meet you." He held out his hand again.

She smiled and shook it firmly. "Hi, yes, I'm Molly. So lovely to finally meet you. Sorry our parents couldn't be here but they're actually at a country line dancing festival in the US right now - Georgia, I think."

"The Hotlanta Line Dance Jam*?" Sherlock asked.

Molly stared at him. "Um, yeah, how did you…"

"My parents love country line dancing, they practically live in the US," he replied, rolling his eyes. "I, er, guess Toby wasn't kidding when she said we'd have a lot in common."

"You know it, Counselor Curly Fu!"

She and Sherlock both turned at the sound of Toby's smug voice. The twelve-year-old who was a miniature version of her nineteen-year-old sister was grinning widely. "Hi Molly!" She hugged her sister tightly and was hugged just as tightly in return. Sherlock started to move away to give them some privacy, but Toby quickly grabbed his wrist. "I have to go to archery practice, you have to show Molly around and then we can get lunch and you can tell her how awesome I am at everything, 'kay? Laters!"

With that she darted off to join a group of other kids, grabbing up a quiver of arrows and a bow on her way.

Molly and Sherlock both stared after the diminutive Hurricane Hooper, then turned back to face one another. "Sooo…care for a tour?" Sherlock asked, crooking his arm as if they were at a Victorian ball.

"Delighted," Molly replied, resting her hand lightly on his elbow. "And while you point out the sights, feel free to share your opinion on cowboy boots."

"Hate 'em," he replied promptly. "And the hats too. Did your parents make you wear them for family photos?"

Molly shuddered. "No, thank God, but don't get me started on the fringed vests…and the chaps, dear GOD the horror of the _chaps_!"

 **oOo**

"Told you they'd be perfect for each other," Toby said smugly to her best friend at camp.

Rosie Watson grinned. "Now we just have to find someone for Head Counselor Lestrade, and the summer will be perfect!"

Giggling, the two pre-teens hoisted their quivers of arrows onto their shoulders and hurried to join the rest of the group.

After all, they needed to maintain their reputation as Junior Cupids in more ways than one!


End file.
